


He Fell into a Faerie Ring

by VolWolf



Series: It’s Tough to Be a God [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (All mentioned Magic Mind/Memory Manipulation is non-sexual), (Exhibited by Jaskier), (Meaning Jaskier in Fae!form), (More Plot Than Porn), (Past mostly), (briefly, (in the past), (minor) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff, BAMF Jaskier, Blood and Gore, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Transformation, Cuddling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Fae!Jaskier, Feelings, Feral Behavior, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff, Forest Sex, Friends to Lovers, Game Lore, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Healing from trauma, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt and comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecurity, Jaskier Whump, Kink Discovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Jaskier, Magic Manipulation, Magic mind control, Making Up, Masturbation, Memory Magic, Minor Character Death, Mix of canons, Monster jaskier, Monster sex, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, PWP, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Sex, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Swearing, Terato, Teratophilia, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Transformation, Wing Kink, biting kink, creature!Jaskier, fae, idiots to lovers, smitten geralt - Freeform, they switch), very light dom/sub undertones, winged!jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 57,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolWolf/pseuds/VolWolf
Summary: Traders are a gossiping sort. If there was a scandal within the noble houses of Posada, you’d hear about it in Cretegor by the end of the week. So, the quick spread of a rumor about a little village in the Kestrel Mountain range was not at all surprising. What was surprising was the story that the traders wove. They said that Luibhtorrach, a sad, ghost of a farming town, had miraculously become a hub for trade, as if overnight. Their lands unbelievably fertile and brimming with crop. Even stranger, each and every one of Luibhtorrach’s people professed that their good fortune was the work of a mysterious beast they’d claimed as their personal deity. Most recent news foretold of their plans to throw a midsummer festival celebrating this newfound god. In preparation, silken blue banners were erected in every corner of the town, each bearing the symbol of their new patron: A delicate dandelion wrapping around a golden sun.- Or -Jaskier accidentally becomes the god of a village he stumbled upon after Geralt’s post-dragon hunt meltdown. Maybe it had something to do with his new look.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: It’s Tough to Be a God [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797508
Comments: 881
Kudos: 1409
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Decent

Jaskier hadn’t realized how long their trek up the mountain had actually been, but supposed that was because he hadn’t been alone at the time. Now, without anyone to talk to— well, _talk at_ , really— everything just seemed much worse. He felt as if he were walking on hot rocks, his feet inflamed and angry from overuse. The shoulder where the strap of his lute case rested felt like it was covered in tiny needles, his nerves begging him to readjust. His chest ached terribly, a heavy iron ball of hurt nestled somewhere behind his sternum. Everything seemed more painful, everything seemed so incredibly intense and inescapable without distraction. Which, now that he thought about it, was kind of ironic, seeing as how his mounting discomfort had probably been the very thing that distracted him enough for him to lose his way _twice_ already. Yes, the path faded into the creeping nature around it every so often, but it was still a visible goddamn path. Jaskier had a perfectly functioning pair of eyes, he shouldn’t be struggling with this so much, but of course he was, _of course_ he had to struggle—why did everything have to be such a fucking _STRUGGLE_. 

Jaskier’s boot slipped on a smooth rock in the sand and he stumbled momentarily, the motion rousing him from his thoughts. 

“.. _.shit._ ” Jaskier whispered at the ground; at the rock that’d tripped him up. _‘Ha_ ,’ he thought, ‘ _Single worded expletives, I’m starting to sound like_ -’

“No! No no no, _nope_ ! Not gonna think about that right now, _no sir_ we’re just going to,” the nervous rush of words tapered off as he considered his options. 

The sun was starting to look dreadfully close to the horizon line, maybe a break was in order. Afterall, they hadn’t made it up the mountain in one day.

“Yes… yes, camp it is then,” he declared in a faked, cheery tone, though he had no one around to feign happiness for. Force of habit, he guessed. 

He made his way into the treeline to scout out a nice, small clearing in the dense wood to lay out his things. Not… that he had _many_ belongings at the moment. He had left most of what he had in his flustered retreat from the others. Among the forgotten provisions, unfortunately, were some essential items. His bedroll, a small bag filled with rations and some healing balms he always brought along, for the injuries Geralt would otherwise ignore. The _absolute,_ bull-headed, brute of a man, refusing to give his welfare any spare thought. If the injuries weren’t bad enough to warrant fear of death, he’d let them collect on his skin endlessly, unknowingly growing tetchier and tetchier. _Sweet Melitele_ , how had he managed at all before Jaskier. ‘ _...better, according to him at least_ ,’ he mused, bitterly. The passing thought stung a bit. _A lot of a bit_ … Even though he knew it wasn’t true. Probably… _Ugh_ , and there he was thinking about it again. Keeping the thoughts at bay was a near impossible feat. 

“ _Ah_ , damn branches,” Jaskier hissed as a twig swiped at his cheek. He brushed at the blooming scratch on his face and continued navigating through the trees. Jaskier knew Geralt hadn’t _really_ meant it. He assumed so at least, or—more accurately—hoped so. He’d just been angry. Getting dumped by a witch on a blustery mountain top is a sure way to sour your mood. Despite Jaskier’s heartbreak and frustration, he knew Geralt wasn’t really just an ‘ _absolute bull-headed, brute of a man_ ’. He was an _absolute bull-headed, brute of a man_ with _SO_ many feelings, and a heart that’d jump right into your hands for you to cherish, safekeep and love if you so much as looked at him too tenderly. Geralt was a soft-souled sap, hiding behind a grumpy guise, and if you stayed around him as long as Jaskier had, you’d glimpse the beautiful moments where that frown would fall away and all the world’s _mirth_ and _wonder_ would spill like rays of sunlight through the Witcher’s _kissable lips_ as he laughed and….

So Jaskier was in love, what was new? He’d always been in love, with anyone and everyone, for the simple reason being that everyone was lovely, was so deserving of love, and Jaskier had a big heart. _So why not love_ ? Most of the time he’d end up running from a house in half his clothes, a grin of fear on his face after escaping the fist of an angry husband yet again, or in a cheap bed—in a cheap inn—alone, come morning’s light. But that was how his love had always ended. He was used to it. It came in bursts, wonderful, _blissful_ bursts. Though, the bursts of love always fizzled and fled. If not abruptly, then gradually, but they had _always_ ended. Until Geralt, who he’d fallen head over heel for at first glance, and then, somehow, continued to tumble over himself repeatedly for the next couple decades. 

The more he knew about him, the more he adored him. He was a pained soul, shown such hatred and resentment throughout his life. Though, instead of it twisting him into something foul, rock hard, emotionless and unreachable… he remained so endearingly open, in his own way. No, he wouldn’t open up to Jaskier about personal feelings unless drunk off his ass, but his actions gave his tenderness away. The way he’d return from a contract, bloodied and weary, and yet selflessly deny payment if his contractor looked like they were struggling financially. Or the way he’d mumble the day’s plan to Roach in the morning, stroking her snout gently, even bumping their heads together on occasion. Geralt was a softie, a big teddy bear of a white wolf who played all the many men who feared him for fools. _Jaskier was no fool_ … and, thus, he loved the man something _fierce_. 

One day he’d work up the courage to tell him. Of course, it wasn’t like he was _scared_ of the prospect, he’d confessed his love dozens of times. This time was no different. Except it _was_ , and he knew it was, because _this love_ had burned hot and searing within him for more than _half_ of his short, human life. It was the only thing, other than his music, that remained constant. Their strange relationship was a bond he was terrified of losing. You wouldn’t want to lose your sail mid-voyage, and Jaskier certainly wasn’t prepared to lose his just yet. Given Geralt’s ever charming stinginess with verbal communication, Jaskier couldn’t quite find the confirmation that what he felt was equally returned. His Witcher was an open book, but sentences like ‘ _Yes, I love you too, Jaskier_ ,’ were not amongst the pages… that he could see, at least. 

“Oh, well,” Jaskier sighed as he finally stepped into a small clearing, “At least he’ll have some time to miss me dearly, _eh_ ?” He patted the ground smooth with his boot near the middle of the area and set down his lute case, “And I’ll have some time to write something lovely. Something that’ll make him _weep_ with guilt upon hearing it.” 

After building himself a small fire and looking through what he’d managed to take with him, he got straight to work on writing just such a song. 

——

“ _Gorgeous garrator, jury and judgeee_ …. hm, no strike the ‘ _gorgeous_ ’, I’m still too pissed at the white haired bastard to praise his looks,” he told the little, dancing sparks that rose up off his fire. He took his trusty old feather quill, worn from years of use, and scribbled many, _many_ lines through the offending word in his composing journal. More lines than were needed, probably. 

He sighed and got back to work, slowly rewriting the heartbreak song to fit his _current_ heartbreak. He did this until the sun was but a mere, suffering twinkle on the horizon, rays petering out as it succumbed to its daily cycle. Eventually his hands and voice grew tired, so he shut the journal with a soft, papery ‘ _pap’_. 

...it was very quiet. Barely a whisper of wind in the air, and not a single bird sang as twilight fell. 

He hated it. 

“ _Ooohhh,_ how does he deal with such wretched silence? That _idiot._ ..” Jaskier’s complaining muffled itself into his knees as he drew in on himself, tired, and yet again relinquishing himself to forbidden, self-pitying thoughts. Though, it didn’t really matter. He was alone with no soul to judge him, and he _should_ be allowed to break a little, he _deserved_ that much. _By Melitele_ , he was angry and hurt right now… But the pain would fade, and somewhere else Geralt’s annoyance with him would fade too, and he’d wise up and the next time they met Geralt would _graciously_ apologize, and Jaskier would _humbly_ accept, and they would continue on as they always had. That was the routine. They got into spats from time to time, it happened. So, It happened again, and they’d make up and it’d be fine. 

Somehow this time was different though. This time the words held a little bit of _truth_ . It wasn’t over Jaskier chattering during Geralt’s meditation time, or drawing attention to himself while Geralt fought a monster, messing up the whole fight. This time Geralt has shouted at him with the heat of the twin suns that _blazed_ in his eyes, _scorching_ him with his glare. The words the Witcher spat at him had struck him so dumb, the only thing he’d been able to do was fib about a plan to get his story elsewhere and give Geralt a halfhearted ‘ _see you around_ ’. 

So... It felt different. _So what_ , maybe that meant all their pasts fights had been mere titters, and they were only now experiencing a _real_ fight. Not bad for 20 plus years of.... _whatever they had_. 

A fluttering noise to his left pulled him from his pouting, and he looked up to see that a small bird had landed on the log he’d earlier dragged near the fire. 

“That’s my log, y’know. Though I guess it’s not really mine, it’s the forest’s log. Or maybe it’s more the log of the tree it once belonged to… either way, I guess it’s fine if you sit there a while. I’m only going to use it later to clean fish upon. There’s a river here somewhere, you can tell by the plants growing around here. But I’m sure you knew that, with the wings and flying and all.” 

The bird just stared at him and cocked its head to the side after a beat of silence. _Odd_. Almost like it wanted him to continue rambling. No, Jaskier was just tired, was starting to miss company, so he had started talking to a bird and was now projecting human qualities onto the creature. What was it anyway, a warbler? It was certainly small, stout and yellow like the warblers he’d seen before. He was no bird enthusiast, however, so might as well ask.

“What are you then? I can’t quite tell, unfortunately. Warbler? Goldfinch? Oriole? T-tanager? _Is that a bird?_ Would you even know the name that humans gave you? I guess you wouldn’t. You just exist. Nameless and content.” 

The bird ruffled its wings at this, but made no further movement, its eyes still fixed on Jaskier. 

“Hm, yes of course,” Jaskier muttered in a considering tone as if the bird had replied. “Well… If you would be so kind as to lend your birdy-ear over, I could regale you with the tale of how I, _famed_ bard and poet, Julian Alfred Pankratz, ended up sitting in a forest alone writing an absolute masterpiece of a ballad about heartbreak and— hm, you get the gist. _Sound good?_ ” 

The bird, unsurprisingly, had little reaction besides repositioning itself minutely, its little black eyes gleaming orange in the firelight. 

He took that as a yes.

“Splendid, now where should I start…” 

Jaskier spent the next couple of hours spilling his heart out. To a bird. It was cathartic, getting all his thoughts out. Some of the things he said even surprised himself. He hadn’t known how much attention he had paid to Geralt’s scars, but telling the bird about the many songs he’d written about the Witcher made him realize that most of the lyrics mentioned them in some way. 

Eventually he reached more current events. It was painful talking about what he’d just been through. Jaskier felt as if it were important to say it, though. To understand how he really felt. 

“...and that’s not really how you’re supposed to treat a friend, is it?” His words stuttered at the end of the rhetorical and he pressed his lips thin, a new train of thought beginning. 

“...and just when I thought things were starting to change. When I thought maybe we could be _something_ … something else, something _more_.” 

He only half noticed his vision starting to blur around the edges, most assuredly from his considerable fatigue. 

“He was.. _hm_ . Getting more affectionate with me. More _touchy_ … even cuddly, if you could imagine that. Big sulking lout like him, _cuddly_ ,” he softly chuffed and continued, blearily adding, “This one night.. this _one night._ He did something.. _hm_ , most uncommon.”

Jaskier barely registered the feeling of cold dirt on his cheek as he started his next story with a soft, amused hum, “ _Mmm_ , yes. You’ve _got_ to hear this one…”

The bird stared at the bard, just as it had for the past three hours. Gaze unflinching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the wonderful [Geraskier_Midsummer_Mini_Bang](https://geraskiermidsummerminibang.tumblr.com/) that I joined.  
> A special thanks to [Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness/pseuds/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness) , [riots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots) , and [maxtbh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxtbh/pseuds/maxtbh) on Ao3 for being my lovely betas!  
> You can find me on Tumblr [@geraltnoises](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) and on Twitter [@LoxVol](https://twitter.com/LoxVol)  
> Both blogs are 18+  
> Artworks for this fic will be posted/rebloged onto these blogs and/or embedded onto the fic itself.  
> I will be updating with a new chapter every 3 days or so until the posting period ends.  
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Tumbling

“ _Ah ah ah_ , not done yet, hold still.”

“ _Hmm_ ,” Geralt simply grunted in response. Jaskier knew what this meant, though, as he knew most of what Geralt’s noises meant by now. His Witcher’s grunt, in this case, roughly translated to something like, _‘Personally, I don’t think my wounds need anymore salve. I’m tired and would like to lay down to sleep now, but I know that refusing to cooperate would mean getting nagged at about not taking care of myself, and I’d much rather endure playing patient a couple minutes more than the latter.’_ Jaskier thought that was a smart response, and continued rubbing the sharp smelling ointment into Geralt’s side.

His Witcher, ever the _calculating hero_ , had charged into a monsters nest without the appropriate bombs. He had grabbed bombs on his way out of their shared room in the local inn, but had been distracted for whatever reason and grabbed the wrong ones. Not a fatal mistake, but it had apparently made the fight harder than it should’ve been, and earned Geralt a couple _nasty_ scratches. Only one looked like it might scar. Jaskier had fixed it up rather skillfully though. The sewing lessons his mother had given him came in handy when traveling with Geralt. Both for stitching the big man back together again and for mending his road-worn clothes. 

Geralt hummed and turned to look back at him, the bed creaking with the movement. 

“You stopped.” 

“Pardon?” 

“...You _stopped_. Are you done?” 

As Geralt had pointed out, Jaskier realized that he had, indeed, stopped rubbing the salve into his friend’s skin and had just left his hand on his waist, warm and soft… and _sticky_ with balm. 

“ _Ah,_ seems I am… _right_ , you can relax now,” Jaskier said as he got up from the bed to shed his clothes for sleep. 

“Something on your mind?” Geralt murmured as he gingerly laid back on the bed, favoring his more wounded side.

“No, not really. Just daydreaming. Us creatives have busy minds y’know,” he told Geralt as he kicked off his pants and climbed into bed himself. Geralt very thoughtfully lifted the covers for him to get under and grunted softly as Jaskier snuggled in close. It was a chilly night, after all. 

After a few minutes of silence, the bard allowed his eyes to flutter shut. He always felt safest tucked into bed next to Geralt. He felt his body relax, could practically see a dream starting to form behind his eyelids… but a voice pulled him back from the sweet promise of sleep. 

“ _Mm_?” He eloquently asked the voice.

“I said… what were you daydreaming about?”

Jaskier begrudgingly cracked open his eyes to see Geralt propped up on his side, staring at him with a sort of _fond_ curiosity. 

“ _Ahh_ ,” he breathed out, thinking back through a sleepy haze, “I was thinking about your injuries. The one I had to stitch up… thought about my mother.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him in a way Jaskier recognized as a prompt to continue.

“It was one of her hobbies. Sewing, I mean, not providing first aid to burly Witchers.” Jaskier smiled at the amused huff he got from the other man. 

“She loved to stitch patterns into things. She was great at it. Made me the most beautiful little flower themed doublet once. I outgrew it by the end of the year, but kept it in my closet ‘till I left to travel.” 

“...You miss her?” 

“Oh, yes, _terribly_.” 

The Witcher’s already gentle expression softened a bit more at Jaskier’s words.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve visited. Perhaps I’ll check in on my ol’ folks this winter while you’re away,” Jaskier mused. He didn’t like when they had to part in the winter. He’d developed feelings for the Witcher some time ago, and separating only seemed to _strengthen_ them. Which would be fine if he knew his feelings were returned, but he didn’t, not yet. It felt like… it could be possible, with the way Geralt looked at him now, eyes _warm_ and _attentive_ , even though visibly tired. That was a conversation the bard was unsure how to start, though. So he’d let it be for now. He _shivered_ , the thin blanket and proximity to Geralt not being enough to dispel the chill that ran over him as he thought about the cold, _lonely_ months to come. 

Geralt apparently noticed this as he disapprovingly rumbled, “You’re cold,” and then proceeded to pull the bard even closer. 

Jaskier blinked in surprise. Geralt never initiated cuddling. Sure, they’d huddled for warmth plenty of times, but that was when they were camping outside in the cold night air. Not when it was just _mildly chilly_ inside an inn. His insides fluttered; happy little butterflies danced for joy. 

He couldn’t help the sleepy yet pleased giggle that left him as he teased his Witcher, whispering, “I should write a song about a cuddly white wolf, my adoring fans would _love it_.” 

“ _Mmm_ , shut up, Jask,” the Witcher replied, just as softly, and without any real bite. Geralt finally looked like he was beginning to doze, so Jaskier pressed his forehead to his friend’s chest and tried to let sleep find him again. 

It almost did. Except. There was the voice again. More insistent this time.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“ _Mmmf_ , Ger _alttt_ I—“ 

“ **_JASKIER_ **!”

———

Jaskier bolted upright, startled out of his slumber. _When had he fallen asleep?_ He looked towards the log to see his feathered companion had finally left, and tried to calm his panting. He had dreamed of Geralt again. The Witcher’s scream had seemed so rea—

**_“JASKIER!”_ **

“Oh what the _fuck_ , G-geralt!? _Shit_ , is that _you_?” he called back, springing to his feet and frantically spinning in place, trying to locate where the voice had come from. 

Why in the world was he _here_?? Had Geralt gone looking for him? Had something happened after he’d left—did he need him _?_ He didn’t have long to consider these options as Geralt’s voice _ripped_ from the trees again. This time in the form of a strangled cry of pain. _Shit._

**_“GERALT!!”_ **

Jaskier fumbled to grab the dagger Geralt had gifted him a while ago from his pack. Once it was in hand, he sprinted towards the tree line. His panic mounted as Geralt called out to him again, his name drenched in _pain_ and _fear_. Jaskier batted at branch after branch that struck him as he ran, stumbling over tree roots and rocks, yet managing to keep his hurried pace. 

**_“AARGH!!_ ** **JASKIER!!”**

It sounded like it came from ahead and a little right of him, so he adjusted his direction and urged his feet to move faster. 

_“GERALT!? I’M COMING!”_

Running as he was with a weapon in hand was dangerous, but he couldn’t bring himself to care with how in pain the Witcher sounded. He would run like this for as long as it took to find Geralt. ...However… It did seem as if he should’ve run into him by now. 

“J-jaskier _, please!”_

The bard nearly tripped from how fast he stopped. The yelling had softened into a distressed moan; a sad sound… that… came from the _left_ of him? 

Had he run _right past_ Geralt in his panic? 

He started in the new direction, but noticed his legs were having a much harder time keeping the same pace as before. That couldn’t be right, he hadn’t been running for _that_ long. They felt like jelly beneath him. _It made no sense._

He didn’t have time to consider his observation for long as he all but _fell_ into a clearing. It was as if the forest had _spat_ him out. He scrambled up, wincing with the effort it took and clutched his dagger to his chest. 

Again, Jaskier had the feeling that something was _wrong_ , so very, very _wrong_. 

“ _G-Geralt?_ Geralt, I’m here, where are you, _say_ something,” Jaskier’s words came out ragged, like he’d been singing non-stop for hours. His throat was so _dry._ “Geralt please, _fuck_ … **BY MELITELE, SAY SOMETH—”**

“Jaskier.” 

The bard _froze._

The voice that answered him hadn’t sounded pained in the slightest _._

It also wasn’t _Geralt’s_ voice anymore. 

What had initially been panic and fear at the knowledge of Geralt being lost and hurt turned to outright _terror_ at the idea of being tricked and lured here… by something using _Geralt’s_ voice. 

Another disconcerting thing: The voice he’d heard just then had come from _behind_ him.

From right where he had fallen. 

He spun around to face whatever it was, but as he did _another_ voice whispered his name, this time to the _left_ of him. He tried to turn in that direction, but he’d barely moved before yet _another_ voice chimed in to the _right_ of him. 

The _left_ , the _right_. **_Behind_** **him**. A clopping of hooves. The _left_ — no right, **_no_** — _both at once_. 

_Closer and closer_ **_and closer and closer, until—_**

“ _Jask_ ,” something sung into his ear, breath tickling the nape of his neck.

Jaskier _screamed_ in anger and swung at it. At where it should have been. The momentum of his desperate attack swept the ground right from under his feet, and he found himself falling backwards. 

The ground, it seemed, was much farther away than he’d thought. Maybe it had no intention of meeting him at all. ‘ _Maybe_ ,’ the bard thought, ‘ _Maybe, I’m still dreaming. Perhaps I’ve always been on the ground, and that’s why I can’t seem to reach it now._ ’ 

That brief idea _shattered_ when Jaskier’s back finally made contact with the earth. 

He gasped, the wind knocked out of him. It felt like drowning on dry land; the air refusing to stay in his lungs. 

But. It also hadn’t hurt. _At all._ And once Jaskier recognized this, his breath returned in full. 

“What the _shit_ ,” he mumbled as he sat up and… his hand was touching something… _squishy_ ? He lifted his palm off the ground to find a little mushroom underneath. And next to that mushroom was _another_ mushroom. And _another_ . And, well, they seemed to continue in a _circle_ , all around him; fully encapsulating him in a ring of lightly glowing fungi. That… couldn’t be good?

“ _Oh,_ but isn’t it?” A sweet, _sing-song_ voice said from directly above him. 

Jaskier craned his neck to look up at the sound and found nothing but a _barely-there_ , shimmering, fluorescent _hint_ of a form. 

“We’re so happy you could _drop_ in.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
> New chapter art can be found on my Tumblr: [Here](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/621897404036399104/geraltnoises-the-second-chapter-of-my)   
> Next chapter, get ready for a wonderful treat from my MiniBang collaborating artist. They're amazing!


	3. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this chapter features the amazing art of [boot-prints on Tumblr](https://boot-prints.tumblr.com/) Also on Ao3 as [TeenyTinyTony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeenyTinyTony/pseuds/TeenyTinyTony)  
> Find their art above the end notes, where you can find more info on the artist.  
> It depicts a scene in this chapter!

The air smelled different now. Like sunflowers and heat; tall grass and honeysuckle. It was… pleasant, though odd. _Very odd_. Not quite as odd as the floating mirage above him, but definitely noteworthy. 

He sat there for a bit. Just processing what he was seeing, and—understandably— becoming further concerned for the state of his sanity. He’d seen many the outlandish creature while traveling with Geralt, but nothing at all like this. Jaskier had heard of monsters that could cloak, like foglets and leshen, both from stories he had to dredge out of Geralt; getting him to talk was like pulling teeth, honestly. This was something else though. Its cloaking was swimming with iridescent prisms and flecks, and something about how the waves of vivid color warped and flowed across their invincible form just… put him at ease. Which was ridiculous, Jaskier had just been practically assaulted by this thing, nothing about the situation said ‘ _comfortable’_ , though his previous fear seemed nearly gone. _Didn’t feel right somehow._

“Ahh, and he was so talkative before.”

“Cat got ya tongue, deary?” 

“Thought you said this was a bard?”

The sudden myriad of voices jostled Jaskier from his thoughts. They were all sweet and melodic, though they varied dramatically in pitch. Some crooned and some tittered, but all sounded too otherworldly to mistake for anything human. Though that was probably the least surprising observation. ‘ _Holy fuck, there’s more than one,_ ’ he thought, something fear-adjacent prickling at the back of his mind. At least that meant it hadn’t been one terrifyingly powerful entity teleporting around him while mimicking Geralt. Just… _many_ unidentified things. Ok, admittedly not so comforting. 

“Should I poke it?” mused a high-pitched, playful voice. 

Jaskier finally piped up at that, squeaking out, “ _Ah_ ! Oh, no no, that— _ah_ — won’t be necessary!” 

“Oh, what a _lovely_ voice, how sweet it is! I thought you were embellishing the tale.”

“I told you, like a songbird!”

“Quite right, but what type?”

“A robin!”

“A lark!”

“Nightingale!”

“Warbler!”

“I am _NOT_ a bird!” Jaskier spat at the chattering air around him, an offended blush painting his cheeks. 

“Oh! It shows its teeth, not a bird, but a beast!”

The bard huffed and turned his head all about, trying to count his… captors? They hadn't exactly _captured_ him, but he certainly felt like a hostage here. Perhaps if he played civil he’d get some answers. 

“Erm… w-who are you… all?” Jaskier stuttered out.

“Oh! How polite, called us _who_ not _what_ , how charming,” something giggled to the right of him.

The one above him spoke up again, cloaking rippling in a way Jaskier guessed implied movement. 

“We are friends, dear bard,” they said in a very matter-of-fact way, as if it were obvious.

Oh, _wow_ , That sorta ticked Jaskier off. 

_“Friends???_ First of all, I don’t even know you,” he fumed, voice cracking in frustration, “Second of all, I might not have the greatest taste in companionship, but no friend of mine would lure me into the forest, scare the _shit_ of out me and push me into some weird glowly circle!!” The anger energized him a little, so he rose to his feet, still a little wobbly, and pointed an accusing finger up at the ‘friend’ above, “And how’d you know _his voice_?”

The shape rippled again, more jerkily this time and there was muffled laughter to all sides of him. 

“We took an interest in your situation after Leeta relayed your tired ramblings,” the voice explained.

“Leeta?” Jaskier scrunched his brow, trying to remember if he knew a ‘Leeta’.

“ _Mmm_ , yes. Little _birdy_ told me all about you,” The voice trilled, expectantly. Jaskier only frowned and crossed his arms. He wasn’t in the mood for a guessing game. When they realized this, the shape amusedly sighed and whispered something in a foreign tongue to another figure somewhere in a tree to Jaskier’s left. 

To Jaskier’s amazement, the other cloaked thing started to shrink and materialize and… and suddenly there sat a little, yellowy bird. Jaskier’s face contorted from recognition to disdain so fast he could _barely_ process the change himself. 

“ _Traitor_ ,” he said pointedly at the bird, pouting as intensely as he could. 

“Oh, don’t be so _harsh_ , dear. If Leeta hadn’t found you, we’d never have met!”

“And what makes you think I’d want to meet any of you! All you’ve done so far is invade my privacy, trick me and terrify me,” Jaskier yelled and squeezed his hand around the hilt of his dagger. The figure— perhaps noticing the bard’s growing impatience— descended from its position overhead… or… _no_ , that was a wrong observation. It _stooped_ down, and squatted to about head height with him. 

It hadn’t been floating, It was just _huge_. 

Jaskier stumbled back and into a defensive, hunched posture; feet shoulder’s width apart for stability, head ducked and dagger raised. The cloaked thing _tsked_ at him softly, like a mother whose amusement at her child’s mess greatly overshadowed her disappointment. 

“We are not going to _harm_ you, Jaskier,” they whispered to him, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

“ _I hate that_ ,” Jaskier gritted out, flashing his teeth in an angry grimace, “I hate that you know _my name_ . I hate that I told it to you without _knowing_ — that you stole my _privacy_ , stole _his voice_ — I hate it! _I’M DONE PLAYING THESE GAMES_!”

The bard’s voice had built itself into an angry yell, laced with pain and resentment. The dagger he held quivered in his grip as he shook with… _what was it?_ Rage? Hurt? Loss? All of them combined probably; he was completely overwhelmed. His eyes were damp with emotion and _fuck_ , he hated that these things had driven him to _near tears_ . He wanted to cry, but he wanted to cry in _private_ , in safety… on Geralt’s shoulder. 

Before he could process what was happening, a large hand gently wrapped around his wrist. He tried to jerk back, but found he couldn’t. It wasn’t that he was held there by magic, or that the grip was preventing him from movement… no, it was because the urge to escape had fled him just as quickly as it’d come. He probably **s** hould have questioned this, but found no will to. 

Jaskier loosened his grip, and, as his dagger fell, so did his tears. 

The bard’s shoulders shook as he sobbed. He couldn’t help it, his emotions were spilling **o** ver and he was powerless to stop them; he didn’t care to either. He didn’t care that the **m** ysterious figures had moved within arm’s reach. Didn’t care when some actually did reach out and started to pet him soothingly. One invisible touch on his right shoulder, one combing through his hair, one tenderly rubbing circles into the small of his back. It was… comforting actually… and wasn’t that _rich_? Comforted by weird, forest creature things he couldn’t **e** ven see.

No one cared about him. No one was coming for him. He was _alone_ . Alone, save for **t** he sweet voices floating around **h** im, gently assuring him that **i** t’d be alright. The only people that seemed to care about Jaskier weren’t even human. He had **n** o idea what they were or their intent. ‘ _Might as well try asking_ ,’ he thought, sobs petering out into soft sniffles.

When Jaskier finally stopped shaking, he blinked at the figures around him, and could see— although through a post-cry blur— that their forms had started to… solidify? It was harder to see through them now and Jaskier could make out appendages, but not much else. 

He cleared his throat and asked in a raspy voice, “Answer me honestly this time. Who are you?” He bit his lip, nervous about the answer he might receive to his next question, “...and what do you _want_ with me?” 

The figure that held his wrist let **g** o and used the same hand to thoughtfully rub where Jaskier thought their chin might be. The bard waited patiently as this creature—who he guessed was the leader of the others— thought their answer over. 

“ **I s** uppose you’ll know soon, either **w** ay,” the figure **r** easoned, “ _Hm_ . Alright then.” They scooted even closer **o** ver to Jaskier and then… _then they were visible_.

A large humanoid creature sat in front of him. They had a feminine, mostly human face. Their skin was smooth and was a light, mint-green shade, peppered with white freckles that shimmered like mica in geodes. Their face was framed by their long hair, which seemed to be made of vines, thin grasses, and chorded flowers of all kinds. Long, floppy ears— that reminded Jaskier of a bloodhound— peaked out from behind locks of foliage. The ears were covered in what looked like fresh grass, but that curled and sat like fur. What Jaskier thought for a moment might be a crown, appeared to actually be a cluster of many weaving horns, pale and clear like moonstone and decorated with baby’s breath. 

Jaskier’s eyes traveled downward to take in the rest of them. Their body was as smooth as their face— save for little sprouts topped with poppies and berries here and there— right up until their waist, which was where any similarity to human anatomy stopped. Remarkably, in place of bipedal legs, they had a canine-like body with a pair of extra frontal legs. Their waist joined the form where the dog’s head should have been, and seemed to function just like the lower half of a centaur— a creature Jaskier was familiar with from a contract Geralt had **n** ear Cidaris two years back. The fur that covered this part of their body was exactly like the fur on their ears, but had splotches of differently colored **g** rasses, some more yellow and orange, some deep green, and some as light as their face **.** **T** heir arms— which were currently crossed patiently in front of them— were long and thin, but powerful looking with tight, chord-like muscles. Their **h** ands ended **i** n dangerous looking claws made from the **s** ame material as their horns, and Jaskier thought about the way they’d held his wrist so softly, earlier. 

They were _beautiful_ . So _utterly_ beautiful. 

He hadn’t realized he’d voiced that thought out loud until the creature blushed and smiled, exposing bright, sharp teeth. They laughed, the sound full of mirth and melody, like the jingling coins of a dancer’s bedleh.

“An unexpected reaction from a human, **I** must admit,” they **s** aid, sounding genuinely surprised.

Jaskier laughed at their response— amused that he’d somehow managed to baffle such a strange being— and used the heel of his palm to **w** ipe the damp **r** emains **o** f sadness from his cheek. As he did this, the others around him also dropped their cloaking and manifested. 

There were about fourteen of them, some sitting, some poking out from behind trees or perched on branches. Three of them were right **n** ext to Jaskier, probably the ones that had comforted him as he sobbed. They were all quite tall— about a head or more over him— humanoid, with bipedal legs, though some with a joint more than should be. Each had combinations of different animal traits; Jaskier noted, wings, tails, and fluffy ears of all sorts. Their eyes shone in the dim light of the moon, like _cat eyes_ . Sometimes he’d seen **G** eralt’s do the same thing **.**

That thought made him smile. 

He had many fond memories of **G** eralt tip-toeing back into their room late at night after a hunt, trying not to wake Jaskier. He was never sleeping though, too worried about the Witcher to fully rest until his return. It was in those moments when Jaskier could glimpse Geralt’s inhumanly reflective **e** yes scanning over him, as if checking that all was well with his friend. Eventually Geralt would notice Jaskier was awake and grunt something like, ‘ _You should be asleep, bard_ ,’ and Jaskier would laugh and blame his **r** estless mind before lighting **a** candle to start his Witcher-clean-up routine. 

He missed that. He really, _really_ missed that… and standing here, amongst these outlandish creatures with Geralt nowhere to be found, he felt strongly like he’d _never_ get to have that again. 

Once more, he felt like crying, but instead just thanked the creatures, voice shaky and quiet. He didn’t know why he was thanking them for simply showing themselves, it made no sense, _but he couldn’t help it._

The **l** eader nodded and ducked **t** heir head close to Jaskier’s. Their eyes, pitch black and gleaming, scanned his face for a bit, _looking_ for something. They seemed to find whatever they were searching for and hummed approvingly.

“We are what you would call Faerie folk,” they said, reaching a long finger out to brush against Jaskier’s cheek. 

“I’ve… never heard of your kind before, I—”

“Even your _Witcher_ probably lacks knowledge of us. We are… an old and _dying_ race.”

Sad hums of agreement came from the other Fae around them, and Jaskier somehow _felt_ their pain move through him. _He shuddered_. 

“And for your second query… we simply wish to _help_ you, Jaskier.” 

The bard scoffed at that. 

“Help **?** How? _Why_?” He replied, a tinge of sardonic amusement in his tone. As warm and kind as they were to him now, Jaskier still hadn’t forgotten the cruel trick they’d used to bring him here. 

Instead of just _one_ answer, he got _many_ , from all around him. 

“Because your story speaks to us.” 

“Because you seem so kind.” 

“Because we need a friend.” 

“Because you are _worthy_ ,” said one that Jaskier somehow knew was Leeta. Before he could ask what she meant by that, the largest one spoke again. 

“We can help each other,” they said, using the hand that hadn’t left Jaskier’s face to cup his cheek. ‘ _Why the constant contact_ ,’ asked the fading rational side of his mind. 

“We need someone to love, and you need someone to love you,” they finished saying, with a kind smile. 

He had no response to that. Some tired part of him _agreed_ with the sentiment, but—

Yet again, the others chimed in. 

“We can save you from your pain.”

“Make it stop”

“Give you a home.” 

“ _No_ ,” Jaskier shook his head at the chorus of voices, “No, I _have_ someone who loves me. **H** e does— I _know_ he does. He’ll apologize and it’ll be alright, _he didn’t mean it_ —“ 

“He _hurt_ you.”

“Stop making **_e_ ** _xcuses_ for him.”

“You deserve so much _more_.” 

“Something _real_.”

‘ _Is this real_ ,’ Jaskier asked himself, and found he truly couldn’t tell. He felt sleepy, and warm, **l** ike he’d just finished off a hearty bottle of wine. If this was a dream, why not go with them? 

_Go with them?_

Jaskier didn’t know when they’d started walking, but they were certainly heading somewhere now. He was being gently led, hands touching him on his shoulders, his arms, his waist, and still on the side of his face, where their leader’s hand remained. His cheek was _hot_ and _tingled_ with energy where their hand met his skin, and Jaskier thought it felt _divine_. 

He felt himself… _slipping_ . Falling through the fabric of reality. Slowly. Steadily. Safely. **_P_ ** _leasantly_. As if the world itself were easing his departure. 

“Come, _rest_.”

“Come, _live_.”

“Come, _be loved_.”

And, _well_ … who could argue with that **?**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tont, Thank you so much for working with me! Your art is gorgeous and I'm so honored to have it in my fic!  
> Go give some love to their original post on Tumblr: [Here](https://boot-prints.tumblr.com/post/622112282532528128/we-are-friends-dear-bard-they-said-in-a-very)  
> And also check out their Midsummer Bang fic: [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820807/chapters/60034321)  
> Posted my new chapter cover on my Tumblr: [Here](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/)


	4. Placation

Dandelion had a wonderful family. It was rowdy, and some of his kin were admittedly a tad puckish and pesky. Even cruelly so when caught ill tempered, but it was rare to catch anyone in a truly foul mood here, and most of the trickery he’d been the target of had all been in good fun. On most days, their home was calm and idyllic in the morning, and merry and jovial throughout the night. Breakfasts were eaten together under the elder tree, lazy sun-naps after lunch were actually encouraged, hunting and gathering were practically considered play, and they held at least three feasts a week, simply because they could; _it was paradise_.

Currently, he was enjoying a very peaceful, lazy afternoon. The midday sun hung just right in the sky, perfect for basking in. He was contentedly seated at his favorite grassy spot near the babbling creek he loved to chat to, getting his now shoulder-length hair done up all pretty by one of his sisters. Cicadas sang the news to each other from across the creek, and the laughing water, wanting in on the gossip, responded with its own bubbly tune. The grass beneath his hands shimmered a soft blue as he played with it, glowing with joy at his touch. Tiny faerie lights of all hues danced between the surrounding flora; some twirling around the trunks of trees in a game of tag, and some popping out from their hiding places in flowers, mid-bloom. To the right of his knee, a little green one spun around a cluster of poppies so fast that it seemed to get dizzy. He snickered at the little light as it floated clumsily over to graze his cheek in a manner that resembled a friendly kiss, before it darted away again. Dandelion leaned his head back, closed his eyes and hummed happily. All in all, he thought he had it pretty good. He never felt lonely anymore, and he still remembers that he used to feel alone quite often. That was  _ ‘before’ _ though. Now he longed for nothing at all, for he had _ everything _ . Absolutely everything….

Well ok, maybe there was something he wanted, but getting it was proving incredibly difficult. As it was, he wasn’t going to get what he so longed for if he failed—yet again— to convince his sister of his usefulness out on the roads of The Continent;  _ Human _ territory. Dandelion thought that their current state of stream-side leisure provided him with the perfect opportunity to broach the topic of his apprenticeship. 

His sister, Melina, was seated close behind him, lower back resting against a large, pillowy fly amanita mushroom. Her nimble fingers moved with relaxed, practiced surety as they laced braids into Dandelion’s fluffy mane. She’d insisted on doing his hair after he’d come back from a hunt looking like he’d made close friends with a dust devil. 

Melina was an ethereally gorgeous little Fae. Her skin was a light, spring green with rosy patches of pink splotched here and there, gathering mostly around the peaks of her joints, which divided themselves with darkened, shallow dips in her flesh. Her chest— flat and smooth, almost like the breastplate on a suit of armour—seemed to jut out farther than it should, and was decorated with deep curls and spirals where her ribs should sit. Instead of a solid torso, she had thick, interwoven vines from under the curve of her chest all the way to where her hips began. Melina’s dainty, sectioned hands were tipped with sharp claws, and her feet ended in intimidating, dual prongs like those found on ends of a bug’s tarsi. Mirroring her other buggy qualities, two insect-like wings stretched out from her back. They looked like an artist’s fanciful rendition of dragonfly wings, the venation pattern curving and dipping in elegant, ornate designs. Her face was nearly human, but her large, almond eyes, tall, flat nose, and floppy, tulip shaped ears likened her more to a fawn than anything else. From Melina’s shoulders and head grew little twigs and budding plant stems that blushed a raspberry red at their tips. 

Her beauty was undeniable, but it was hardly the reason for her high standing in the family. She was fairly young compared to the others, but garnered the same respect that an elder would receive, all because of her selfless ‘profession’. Going out alone in the Human world and mingling amongst them on their own turf was one of the most dangerous things Fae folk could do. It was part of the reason their numbers had dwindled to such a low and pitiful count. Humans were fearsome,  _ ugly _ things, but their creations—their art, jewels and fabrics—were worth risking exposure to obtain. Melina, the most skilled at disguise, had been the only one allowed around human populated areas, as of late. Which, for Dandelion—a curious spirit to the core—was maddening. 

“You know I could turn out to be a wonderful traveling companion, you never know, Melina—“

“Oh, come of it, Dandelion, I already told yo—“

“ _ The tales of Melina the Marvelous! _ Don’t you want a ballad or two, to preserve your heroics—“

“ _ No _ , I said _ no _ —just as I said yesterday, and the day before, and just as I’ll say tomorrow: the answer is _ no _ . Not  _ yet _ .” 

“But what if I ask extra nicely— _ Ow!! _ Careful!” 

“Sit still or I’ll braid thorns into your hair instead of flowers.”

Dandelion huffed and, begrudgingly, relented. After all, she could very well do as she threatened if she wanted, and he’d really rather not spend the afternoon picking rose thorns from his scalp...  _ again _ . That last time he’d actually deserved it though, calling his siblings tricksters was hypocritical considering he’d had all the best pranks as of late. However, switching out Melina’s favorite facial cream for fish paste apparently crossed just over the line from funny joke to  _ horrendous crime _ . So Dandelion wouldn’t push his luck today. 

“...And where'd you come up with ‘heroics’? I’d hardly call what I do out there  _ heroic _ , unless you consider nabbing baubles and trinkets from little lords and ladies an admirable act?” Melina tutted.

“Oh uh,” Dandelion scratched behind his ear in thought before Melina’s hand gently whacked it away for interfering with her work. He wasn’t actually sure why he said things like that. Very often he’d refer to things before realizing he had no memory of what he was referring to. 

“Slip of the tongue, I suppose,” he murmured, picking a blade of grass from where they lounged on the ground, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You’re doing that more often lately I noticed.”

“Yes, well. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

“And yet you worry an awful lot for a flower,” Melina hummed in what might’ve sounded like amusement had it not been for the slight aura of concern floating off her. 

He didn’t really have a response to that. His feelings confused him constantly. He’d never been this happy, this content... yet he also felt a sort of  _ pull _ from some far off direction, a tugging on his heart, an absence of something he needed as much as any other vital organ. Though every time he reached towards the memory of whatever he missed so dearly, it just dissipated back into  _ nothingness _ and left him very visibly frustrated. He loved causing drama and revelled in discord—as long as it was playful—but truly hated worrying the others in any real way. Their smiles were beautiful and bright, and seeing them falter and settle into worried frowns because he’d accidentally said something odd again?? It felt terrible _. _ He wanted to keep them smiling. So he’d stopped trying to decipher his weird thoughts weeks ago, but the ghosts of memories still came, despite his resolve to forget. 

Behind him he heard Melina click her tongue to draw him back to the present. She must’ve known where his mind had started to wander, given his sudden, uncharacteristic silence. 

“Cheer up, buttercup. Calm your busy brain for once and just relax,  _ hm _ ?” 

“You expect me to relax when I could have angry little spikes summoned to prick across my gorgeous fa— _ ahA!  _ Not fair, no tickling!  _ ppFFft—Melinaaa, _ ” Dandelion’s dramatics were cut short as he broke into giggles. Melina knew him better than anyone in the family, including how to cheer him up. She fluttered her wings, to lift herself just enough to reach a particularly tickle-sensitive spot on Dandelion’s side, and soon had him begging for mercy.

“ _ Aha ah _ —alright! I surrender! You got me, I’m all  _ smiles _ now, get off,  _ shoo _ ,” Dandelion said, out of breath as he pushed Melina off, “You better not have messed my hair up!” 

“Oh  _ shush _ , you look fine,” Melina tittered, righting herself and returning to her spot behind Dandelion to fix up the braid that had indeed gotten a bit mussed during the tickle assault. She tied it off and started to work on another little braid. He wasn’t sure what style she had planned for today, but considering the many ties she had laid out on the ground, it was most definitely something intricate. At least it’d give him more time to convince her.

“Mayb _ eee _ , just  _ maybeee _ ,” Dandelion started, thoughtfully tapping his chin with an index finger, “Maybe I just need some fresh air! Though, maybe not  _ this _ fresh air—maybe _ another kind _ of fresh air. Fresh air that’s from somewhere  _ else _ . Not here.  _ Not-here-air _ .” 

“Dandelion,” Melina laughed, now truly just amused at his unwavering persistence, “Do you really think you’ll find what you’re looking for out there, _ hm _ ? Is that why you pester me?”

“ _ No _ , no I just... there are no  _ stories _ here, no  _ drama  _ to weave into song. I need inspiration, Melina!  _ Heartbreak, heroics a _ —“

“We both know this is about more than your music, but the only thing you’ll find broken out there’ll be your  _ bones _ if you don’t learn to properly glamour first,” Melina said, emphasizing her point by yanking the portion of hair she was currently weaving. 

Dandelion winced at the scolding tug but didn't retaliate further, settling on a little, _ “Hmmf, _ ” to convey his displeasure. 

“Don’t  _ ‘hmmf’ _ me, flower, I know you haven’t been practicing, you slacker. You won’t be _ ‘adventuring’ _ with me anytime soon if you don’t learn to disguise yourself. Simply messing up your glamour on the roads I travel can get you killed _. _ ”

At this Dandelion turned his head and genuinely frowned at Melina. 

“I thought you promised Muralis that you were being more careful after last time,” he whispered, as if someone would hear them. 

“As far as they know, I still am.”

“Melina, you  _ promisedd _ —“

“Hush now,” She said, turning his head back around with a firm hand before returning to her task, “I take all the necessary precautions I can, but even then, it’s still dangerous work, which is why I can’t let an inexperienced little sapling, such as yourself, join me. Definitely not without learning to gl—“

“ _ Glamour _ , right, yes, _ okay fine _ ,” Dandelion hurried his words, exasperated. “If I practice _ realllll  _ hard and learn to glamour good and proper, will you take me? Please, Melina, please plea _ se please ple _ —“

“Ok!  _ Ok _ , just stop  _ squirming _ ,” She huffed as she tied off the finished design. Dandelion went still at her response, clearly surprised, so she took the opportunity to plant a quick kiss on the top of his head and leaned back, smiling as she watched her daisies bloom between the braids she’d just made. 

As the final daisy sprouted, Dandelion absentmindedly raised a hand to rub at one of the petals, his face lost in thought. He turned to Melina again after a moment and quietly asked, “ _ Really _ ?” 

“Of course, Dandelion. As long as you keep your end of the bargain and learn to glamour… then  _ yes _ .” 

Dandelion looked away and bit his lower lip, still in disbelief. This wasn’t the outcome he’d been expecting. He’d been trying to get Melina to say yes for so long. 

Melina fluttered up and over to land gently in front of Dandelion and smiled warmly at his confused expression.

“You really mean it? You’d let me come with you?” He asked again, this time pointing to himself just to clarify that Melina knew what she was getting herself into. 

“Sure, flower. Once your roots are settled, I’d be honored to have you join me, “She patted the top of his head, taking care not to squish any of the daisies, “You’d make a lovely traveling companion.”

“ _ At least you think so… _ ”

“What?” 

“Nothing nothing,” he said with a dismissive wave. Finally recognizing his success, Dandelion smiled as wide as he could before triumphantly declaring, “I get to go on an  _ adventure _ !” 

“Yes yes, just hold your horses big guy. I’ll take you  _ someday _ , not  _ today _ ,” Melina said, getting to her feet and holding a hand out to help Dandelion up. He took it and let her pull him up as he laughed giddily.

“That’s still a win in my book!” 

“Mm, must not be a very long book,” Melina said, laughing at Dandelion’s faux pouty expression. 

“It’s a work-in-progress,” he retorted, haughtily, “In fact, why don’t we add another entry? I’d rather like to see my new look.” 

Melina smiled as she caught the competitive glint in Dandelion’s eyes and fluttered her wings, preparing for takeoff. 

“Race you to the gazing stone? First one ther— _ Hey _ ! You cheater!” Dandelion yelled before scrambling to follow his sister. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter cover will be posted today on my [Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/)


	5. Revelation

Cold earth beneath hi **m** ... damp, but soft, like it’d been freshl **y** ploughed. The smell of… black birch, malted ale, a **n** d  **a** n odd, dusty  **m** usk that h **e** couldn’t place…. horses, smelled a b **i** t like hor **s** es. Horses… _ hmmm _ , like Roach. Wait,  _ Roach _ ? A… bug? A Fish? No..  _ no _ , a name. A…  _ friend _ . 

His hand  **j** ust b **a** rely bru **s** hes against something… something warm, and pliant… giving. Something covered in a soft coat of fuzz and with…  _ indents _ ? Dimpled lines, and mar **k** s.  _ Ah _ , scars, they’re _ scars _ . 

He was touching _ sk _ **_i_ ** _ n _ .

H **e** **r** olled clumsily towards the warmth the other so steadily emitted **,** his body heavy with slee **p** , but determined to fee **l** mor **e** of th **a** t familiar **s** kin. Th **e** textu **r** e und **e** rneath hi **m** turns from dirt to soft furs… and th **e** n he feels it: the body there, he knows that body. It feels like safety and—and _ho_ ** _m_** _e_ … _gods_ , it feels like love itself. He nuzzles his face close and feels long, soft hair tickle his nose. He smiles, presses into it, **b** reathes d **e** eply, and— _oh_ —he _knows_ that scent. It’s his _Witche_ ** _r_** **.**

It’s his  _ Ge _ —

“ _ —hhhA _ **_A AA!!_ ** _ nO,  _ **_WAIT!!_ ** ”

-—-

Dandelion shot up from his nest in a start, the soft grasses and furs underneath him jumping with his movement, and the fairy lights that’d cuddled up with him for the night quickly fleeing.

He whipped his head about, trying to see where the danger was but… no, what was he thinking, there was no danger here, wasn’t possible. He was safe and all was well, like  _ always _ . Dandelion breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at himself a bit.  _ How silly of him _ . He’d just slept in again, obviously, and he’d probably just been spooked by the sounds of his siblings roughhousing somewhere nearby.

That’s all it was. Had to be.

_ “Mmf _ , and I was having such a lovely dream too,” he said through a yawn, stretching his arms out till they cracked and popped pleasantly. 

He’d started re-making his nest, fluffing and folding the furs so they’d be ready for his noon-time nap, when he heard it again. 

An echoing yelp of  _ pain _ . 

He dropped the furs and ran, panic suddenly overtaking him. He didn’t know where it came from, but he was so afraid— so  _ incredibly  _ afraid as he wove between trees, branches scratching his sides and… this was so eerily familiar. Like a reoccurring nightmare he’d forgotten the ending to. He felt his throat tighten—a word caught in his throat— it was  _ stuck  _ in there, but he wanted to scream it, call it out! Because he needed to get there—

_ Needed to find him! _

“ **_Gera_ ** —!”

Dandelion erupted from the tree line and stumbled back to his feet, nearly falling flat on his face. He was incredibly glad he hadn’t actually fallen as he looked up to meet the surprised eyes of his brothers. Four of them had gathered around an old tree stump where, Riven— a medium sized, humanoid Fae with prismatic, scaley skin— currently sat, his face screwed up in pain and hands gripping the furry tufts of white hair atop his head. 

“What happened? Riv, are you quite a-alright?” Stuttered Dandelion as he brushed himself off, very aware of the caking of dust he’d collected after scrambling to get there.

“ _ ppPFFFFfttt!! _ Good gods, Dandelion, what was  _ THAT _ ?” blurted one of his brothers, through snorts and hiccuping laughter. The other three standing Fae joined in, all sounding like drunken jackels. He frowned at their rudeness. This was the thanks he got? After he’d rushed to the rescue?  _ The audacity _ !

“Alright, alright, very funny. I heard a scream, I got  _ worried _ , that’s all. Shut your maws, or—“

“Oh, or what? ‘ _ Or I’ll shut em for you _ ’, yeah?” Mocked the brother who’d started the laugh fest. Dandelion eyed a long branch to his brother’s left and flicked his wrist with intention. “Is that it? Is th—  _ oW! _ Hey!” 

Dandelion smirked and laughed a bit himself. The branch hadn’t hit him too hard; just enough to be funny. 

He looked back to Riven who held up a hand and shook his head.

“M’okay Dandelion, just getting my ear pierced is all,” he said sheepishly, moving his hand away from his head so Dandelion could get a look.

“Your? Ear? That’s what all that ruckus was over?” Dandelion chuckled as he came closer to inspect the ear, and nonchalantly flung an arm around the shoulder of his nearest brother. He peered closer and saw that Riven’s left ear was, as he’d said, freshly pierced. He recognized the small gold hoop from the pile of trinkets Melina had brought back a few days ago. 

“Well, y-yeah,” Riven said, briefly frowning in confusion. His tone suggested that Dandelion was missing something obvious. _ As usual. _

His brothers swapped exasperated side glances for a moment before Dandelion sighed to break the silence. “Alright, is anyone going to fill me in on why ear piercing is such a torturous practice, or are we all gonna stand around and wait for me to divine the information from the tree leaves or some shit?”

Riven stifled a laugh and put his head in his hands, “ _ Really _ ? Dandelion, I thought Leeta was working with you on this?” 

Dandelion shrugged and pushed some dirt around with his foot. He had little memory left of his old life, but he was aware that he hadn’t always lived here; hadn’t always been family. Leeta had volunteered to teach Dandelion enough about their culture to navigate his new life, but he… well, the tutoring sessions always left him feeling uncomfortable,  _ out of place. _ Each time he sat with Leeta to practice spells, learn about the history of their people, or the importance of the different native herbs and fungi in Sídhe-Sifra, it served as a further reminder that he was different—didn’t really belong—and that hurt, in a tired kind of way, like reopening an old wound. So he found himself making excuses, postponing their meetings and avoiding Leeta; not unlike a student in Academy playing hooky. However, skipping lessons was a double edged sword. On one hand he saved himself some discomfort… but on the other, he knew  _ not  _ knowing only distanced himself further from his new family. As a result, awkward moments like this seemed to happen quite a bit.

“I’ve been… otherwise engaged, as of late,” he finally supplied.

“Oh, yes of course, I’m sure Muralis’ golden child has lots of very important responsibilities we aren’t made privy to, very mum’s the word, right?” Said the brother he’d leant himself on. Dandelion rolled his eyes as his brother continued, this time in a less humorous tone, “Just because you’re ‘gifted’ doesn't mean you can rely on natural talent alone. There are things that you have to practice. Like gl-”

“ _ Glamouring! _ Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you! I’m working on it.”

“Are you really?” His brother asked while squinting at him, knowingly.

Dandelion directed his attention to a very interesting pebble on the ground and dubiously murmured, “...Absolutely _ yy _ .” 

“Oh, lay off him, Theo. You’re just bitter that Dandelion mastered light magicks in half the time it took you to,” huffed Riven, coming to the rescue. 

The others around him scoffed and started debating the legitimacy of Riven’s statement before Dandelion interrupted with a theatrical cough. 

“Alright, so, you remember what harms us, I assume?” Riven asked, getting his answer in the form of a pouty look from Dandelion. “ _ Titania, guide me, _ ” Riven muttered through a sigh before continuing, “ _ Iron _ . Iron is awful, burns like the pits, if exposed long enough to it, it can charr your skin right off. It’s one of the  _ only  _ metals that can leave lasting scars on us. Usually best to stay away from, unless you want a permanent scar for whatever reason. In this _ caseee _ —“ 

“A piercing!” Dandelion finished for him, pointing at his ear for emphasis. 

“Correct!”

Dandelion removed himself from his brother and knelt down next to Riven to—this time— properly study the pierced ear. Now that he was  _ really _ looking, he noticed that the sliver of skin around it looked terrible, like someone had rubbed charcoal over a bloody, oozing wound. It didn’t smell great either and Dandelion covered his nose to prevent him from sneezing on his poor brother.

“So you,” Dandelion mimed poking his ear with a needle, “and then it just?  _ Stays? _ How long does it take that thing to heal?” 

Riven scratched the back of his head and bit his tongue in thought. “ _ Mmmmm,  _ ‘bout a month or so? It’s a shit process really but,” He flicked the pierced ear and proudly posed on his tree stump seat, “Worth it!” 

Dandelion nodded with a little chuckle before standing back up. Riven was right, the piercing was very flattering against his brother’s pearlescent pallor. Maybe he’d consider letting Melina pierce him one of these days. Before he could voice that idea, one of his brothers spoke up again.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t know about iron!” 

“Hey I’m still relatively new to this, give me a break,” Dandelion said, crossing his arms. “Geralt only ever carried steel and silver swords on him, how was I to know about the effects of iron on Fae?”

Suddenly all eyes were back on him, the faces of his siblings blanched, looking like they’d seen a ghost appear before them. 

Riven stood slowly and approached him, hand outstretched like he expected Dandelion to take off at any moment.

_ “You remember him?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new cover hasn't been posted to my [Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) yet, as I might make this a double update day 👀   
> Stay tuned!


	6. Departure

‘ _Betrayed_ ’ wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what Dandelion currently felt. 

He wanted to scream, yell, burn down the forest of Sídhe-Sifra—the home he’d come to love so much and watch as it turned to ash around him. 

He did none of these things. 

Instead, he’d summoned vines and left his brothers strung up by their feet from the canopy. He knew they’d free themselves soon enough, but the vines would buy him enough time to do the stupid thing he was about to do. 

He’d never seen anyone question their Elder, Muralis, let alone  _ yell _ at them, but he was enraged enough to take the risk. 

“ **_MURALIS!!_ ** ” Dandelion shouted with a rumbling growl at the back of his throat that made him sound as if he were spitting fire. He stormed up to the deep, tree-shaded alcove of the Elder’s Garden and paced furiously as he waited. 

It didn’t take but a minute for Muralis to emerge, bending low to avoid scraping their horns across the leafy ceiling. They looked at him with such genuine sadness that Dandelion almost considered turning around and forgetting the whole thing… but he had to know. 

He drew a steadying breath and took a moment to gather his thoughts. When he was ready, he looked up to Muralis and…. ‘ _ Damn it _ ,’ Dandelion thought as he felt a rogue tear roll down the side of his cheek. 

“You told me I went with you willingly,” he started, voice shakier than he would’ve liked it to be. “You told me I  _ wanted _ to leave. But that’s not true— I  _ know _ it’s not true—because I  _ never _ would’ve left him.  _ Never _ , not in my right mind.” He shuddered, tears now streaming freely down his face. “So,  _ look me in the eye _ ...and tell me the truth. Right now. I need to hear it from you:  _ Did you use magic on me? _ ” 

Muralis seemed to contemplate the question before answering in a strained, yet calm voice, “We only helped you see what you truly  _ needed _ in the moment. Stripped your nerves away, so that you would be free to make the _ right choi _ —“

“It’s a  _ simple _ question with a _ simple _ answer:  _ Yes  _ or _ no _ ,” Dandelion’s voice sounded raw as it rose in volume, “I _ want _ . To  _ hear _ . You  _ say it _ .  **_YES or NO!_ ** ” 

Dandelion had expected rage from Muralis, or resentment or  _ something _ —any other reaction. Instead he faced his Elder, and watched in disbelief as their eyes welled with glistening tears. 

They sat, slowly, and folded their hands in their lap. 

“Yes,” they breathed out, resigned and… remorseful. “ _ Yes _ , Jaskier. I did.” 

_....Jaskier _ . 

Jaskier…… Julian Alfred Pankratz. The noble, the son… _ the White Wolf’s bard _ . 

He had many things he wanted to say in response to Muralis’ admission, but, in the moment, all he could manage was a small, wounded, “ _ My name _ .” 

Muralis nodded as a few silent tears dripped down their chin and onto the dirt. 

“ _ I forgot my name _ .” 

The garden around them was unnaturally quiet as they cried. 

Dandelio— no,  _ Jaskier _ . Jaskier wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, mourning his lost ignorance. It felt like hours, but could have very well been mere minutes or seconds. The crushing silence broke only with the arrival of his brothers, finally free from their viney bonds, and with Leeta and Melina following close behind.

Muralis began to speak again then, this time in an even and level voice. They talked for a long while, explaining what had happened, and Jaskier felt his memory returning with every new word spoken. He understood that they’d been desperate. Contact between other groups of Fae kind had all but stopped after  _ The Great Culling _ , caused long ago by the uptick of war among the Humans. The sudden burst of violence and travel made the humans all but impossible to avoid on the same plane: The Continent. Nefarious and hateful, Mankind had cruelly revealed their kind’s secrets, leaving them open and vulnerable to slaughter. Many ancient lineages died off during that time, and the Faerie Folk had gone into hiding to preserve the ones that remained. As result, they had gone hundreds of years without meeting anyone new… and then they’d found Jaskier. 

Alone and hurt and  _ wanting _ . 

So he understood why they did what they did. Why they’d lured him in, coaxed him into staying on their plane where they knew he’d  _ change _ with time. He understood, but he couldn’t forgive. 

_ Not yet. _

“I’m going back,” he said, voice surprisingly strong and steady for having cried so long. 

“No!  _ No _ , flower,  _ please wa _ —“ Melina’s plea was cut off as Muralis raised their hand to stop her. 

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look at Melina, he was certain his newfound composure would break as soon as he did. 

“I need to choose my own path. I’m going back,” he repeated. 

Muralis stood and nodded, wiping their face of the wetness that remained and retreated back into the alcove. When they returned, they knelt down and held out a silver dagger with a single blue gem embedded in the hilt. Jaskier recognized it immediately as his and took it when it was silently offered back. It felt smaller in his hands somehow; lighter too. He felt his Elder’s hand on his shoulder and willed himself to look back up to meet their gaze. 

“Your world is not how you left it. Time passes differently here. You have experienced only one full cycle of the seasons here, but out there many years have already come and gone.” 

Jaskier knew this news should have upset him, but his emotions were  _ spent _ . 

“Alright,” he replied softly. Jaskier placed his hand over Muralis’ and squeezed it lightly; a final, parting show of affection. He slid the hand off his shoulder and started to walk away. He paused after a few steps and made to look back. He  _ wanted _ to look back— to say a proper farewell, and promise Melina he’d return one day… but he  _ couldn’t _ , knowing what he’d see might change his mind. So he didn’t.

Before him appeared a swirling vortex, no doubt summoned by Muralis. The entire spectrum of color seemed to twist in its dizzying spirals, and the air around him filled with the crackling scent of  _ ancient magic _ . The power of an Elder— one of Old Blood— was deep and vast; a rare spectacle to behold. 

Jaskier steeled himself, gripped his dagger close to his chest, and closed his eyes. 

He took one last breath, savored the fresh inhale, the final taste of paradise, and then stepped through. 

He felt his stomach drop and the ground fall away. 

Jaskier wondered, briefly, if he’d ever stopped falling in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Double update!  
> The joint cover for both Chp. 5 & 6 will be posted to my [Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) shortly! 😃


	7. Cognizance

The first thing Jaskier became aware of was the cold. He groaned and shifted, face dragging through newly fallen leaves, soft and fragrant; bathed in the sweet perfume of early decay. He didn’t remember falling, or anything after he stepped through the portal for that matter; he must have passed out. Muralis’ magic was old and potent enough to wipe out even other Fae…. _huh._

‘ _Even other Fae… like me_ ,’ Jaskier thought into the leaf pile.

He lay there unmoving for a minute or two before—

“ _AH!! SwEET MELITELE!!_ ” He yelped, shooting upright and immediately regretting it. His head swam, the world a blur of delayed information, his vision lollygagging on the forest floor though his eyes had turned to the sky. He forced them closed again, hoping the nausea would leave if he couldn’t see the earth spinning around him. Of course, with his shit luck, It didn’t help; Instead it made things infinitely worse, as the elimination of visual stimuli only facilitated his memory recall. ‘ _Recall_ ’ being a sick way to describe the absolute _carnage_ currently taking place within Jaskier’s head. 

He had thought he’d been recovering clear memories when Muralis had explained things before he left, but— _oh_ — he was so terribly wrong. Those memories were mere _wisps_ , and what entered his head now were full blown memories, clear and rich and tangible and _heavy_ with the guilt of forgetting. Everything that he had left behind in this world— _his world_ —felt so recently abandoned, like he’d only yesterday traveled down the mountain, alone and hurting. The conversation about iron and piercings he had with his brothers— _NO_ , his _not_ -brothers—felt like it had taken place weeks ago. The Fae plane—Sídhe-Sifra—felt distant and hazy, like trying to remember a night’s events when you’d been drunk for most of it. It hurt; felt like his mind was painstakingly reassembling itself. 

Jaskier heard a pitiful whine of pain and only half registered that he was the one making the noise. 

___

He had no idea how long he’d been stuck like that, curled in on himself on the ground in the agony of remembering. It must’ve been a good while as the cold chill of the soil and leaves underneath him had turned to a musty warmth, wet with morning dew. 

His body was just now gifting feeling back to his limbs, and it hurt less to attempt coherent thought. 

He lay there a good while longer, listening to the forest wake up around him. Jaskier finally moved again when he was sure the ordeal had ended.

He sat up, carefully… _slowly._

He folded his hands in his lap.

He did _not_ open his eyes.

Jaskier did not want to see— didn’t want to look down and witness what his beloved musician’s hands had turned into, because now, after the torture of remembering, _he knew exactly how much he’d changed_. 

He knew that he had been human once. Small, delicate, fragile, _normal_ . Now that his mind had finished puzzling itself together, he remembered looking into the gazing stone after Melina had done his hair, and all the other times he’d admired his reflection while in _false paradise_. It was a reflection that showed Jaskier a face that wasn’t his— a face with his features yes, but the similarities ended there. Melina’s daisies wrapped around tall, curved horns, dappled in warm sienna. His long brown hair, pulled back in intricate braids as it was, allowed him a clear view of his deer-like ears, long and covered in short, velvety fur. Jaskier’s grin was fearsome, large pointed canines warping his once charming smile into a deadly threat. 

On top of that, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in _weeks_ . That wasn’t… _quite as_ alarming as the other new additions to his anatomy—but still— how shamefully undisciplined of him. To think he walked around the Fae plane this unkempt for nearly a _year_. 

He hated how familiar he was with the body he now inhabited. Jaskier had lived so long in it without even being _aware_ that it had changed. 

It had been… _gradual_ , now that he thinks about it. He hadn’t just appeared there and changed overnight. It happened over months and months, breathing their air, eating their food, drinking their waters. It had morphed him into a monster. 

_And Jaskier hadn’t noticed_.

Hadn’t been aware of the _grotesque_ removal of his own autonomy— the cruel and meticulous stripping of his identity.

He felt a big, pitiful tear drop onto one of his clenched fists, could feel his claws dig into the meat of his palms. 

What power they had, to have been able to pull a veil over his eyes for so long, shielding him from the very reality of his metamorphosis; tricking him into thinking he’d always been a _hideous_ , chimera-like creature...with huge, feathered wings, a tail and fucking hooves… like a devil. 

‘ _Perhaps that’s what I am now? Not a bard or a human. Just a filthy, forsaken devil_ ,’ thought the thing that used to be Jaskier.

——

Not-Jaskier had gotten up from his leaf pile a couple hours ago. Had forced himself to go into a numb state of apathetic acceptance and explored the place that the portal had dumped him. It was, unsurprisingly, the site of the rushed camp he’d made years back. Nothing—save the log he’d dragged to the clearing—remained to suggest his presence there, but it was familiar all the same. His belongings were gone, _of course they were_. Some arsehole had probably got a week’s worth of crowns off his lute and his song journal had probably been reduced to impromptu fodder for some low-life bandit’s fire. 

It was fall now, he could discern that much. The colorful trees, fallen leaves and temperate climate all told him so. The soft breeze that ruffled his fur carried the slight hint of winter on the way— a _sharp_ scent, like mint or the cool on ice. 

‘ _Ah, good_ ,’ he thought bitterly, ‘ _Not only am I lost in the woods with nothing to my name and a new body that screams “flee in terror”—oh no— turns out winter’s around the corner as well_.’ 

Apathy be damned. Perhaps the world was taking pity on him in a way; deigned it proper that he freeze to death rather than endure this sorry existence any longer. Merciful really. 

...No, that wasn’t right, those were _ugly thoughts_ and he forced them out. Even in his current state he wouldn’t allow himself to wallow like that. He’d learned many things traveling with Geralt, one of them being the dignity in resilience. 

He would get through this. 

Even as Not-Jaskier. 

——

He was determined to persevere, he just had to make a survival plan and follow it. Simple as that. 

“I can do this— I can do this on my own,” he muttered to himself as he crouched over the wet riverbank, scrawling words and phrases like _‘food_ ’, ‘ _nearest town_ ’ and ‘ _shelter_ ?’ into the compact sand. He groaned defeatedly and crossed out ‘ _buy clothes_ ’, remembering he’d probably terrify any tailor or merchant—perhaps even the lovely Elihal— in his current state. If he looked like Jaskier it would’ve been fine, a non-issue. He would simply play victim, show up on some kind soul’s doorstep, weep about how he was robbed by _ruffians_ on the road, and plead for help. Surely, they’d melt at his tale and welcome him in, feed him, let him borrow clothes, and in the morning he’d waltz into the nearest tavern, sing his heart out and rake in enough coin to make himself decent again. 

But he didn’t look like Jaskier, not anymore… _unless_. 

“ _Aha!!_ Yes, what a stroke of genius,” he praised himself, merrily writing ‘ _Learn to glamour_ ’ on the ground. “There we are, a solid plan! _Piece. Of. Cake_.” 

He laid back with a relieved sigh. He’d be fine, he just had to practice. 

“I can do this,” he repeated to himself, “ _I can do this_.” 

——

“ **_ARGGH_ ** — _I can’t fucking do this!!_ ” Not-Jaskier roared up at the sky. 

Granted, it had only been a couple hours of attempting to glamour, but the disheartening lack of progress was already driving him mad. 

He _knew_ the method, he _knew_ the focusing chant, he _knew_ what little nubbin of power inside of himself to call on to cast the glamour. _He knew. How. To do this._ He could feel his magic pulse deep within, but when he tried to cast, all he got was a little shifting of skin on the back of his hand. 

How could he have been so stupid! There had been a reason all the other Fae had constantly reprimanded him for not practicing; it was obvious now. Glamouring was hard as _fuck_. 

This was going to take time. 

The prospect of practice was not foreign to him, having spent a lifetime perfecting his craft as a bard. However, this was not the simple learning of a new instrument, this skill was _essential_ if he ever wanted a shot at normalcy again.

He scowled at the sky and childishly stuck his tongue out. The gods were laughing at him up there—they had to be.

——

He was doing better now. Based on the sun’s visitations, it’d been about a week and a half since he’d left his old campsite. He was traveling down along the river, making sure to keep to the wilderness to avoid bumping into anyone _human_. 

Something he no longer was. If his monster’s body wasn’t reminder enough, how he fed himself would have been. 

Pouncing on fish and small game—like hare and muskrat—ripping into them with his flesh-rending teeth, and then proceeding to eat them _raw_ ; it was foul. He might have even felt ashamed if he wasn’t so goddamn hungry. Initially, he had made an attempt to cook the meat over a fire, but found the result absolutely revolting. Perhaps it was the lack of seasoning… or, more likely, a condition of his new form. He hoped—rather uselessly—that his unfortunate taste for raw meat be more temporary than permanent. Could be that it was the result of spending a year with his Fae family eating a primarily bloody diet. Surely that was possible, wasn’t it? The sensible side of him told him…‘ _no_ ’; that little pheasant he’d had that morning tasted far too good raw for his cravings to not be inherent and instinctual. He’d really like his sensible side to shut up once in a while. 

However, the issue of his eating habits could be dealt with later. What he had to focus on now was staying positive and finding shelter before winter. 

It was _fine_. Things were going well.

——

Things were _not_ going well. 

His usual coping method of humming himself to sleep and ignoring the inevitable, looming breakdown headed his way was— _well_ …. yeah, it wasn’t working tonight.

“ _FAMILY! Doesn't! Screw with! Each other’s! Heads!_ ”, Jaskier yelled at the poor tree, every other word punctuated by a brutal slash at the sad, shredded bark, “Or non-consensually turn them into _monsters_ ! Or hide their true identity from them! _OR DESTROY THEIR FUCKING LIVES—_ **_FUCKKK_ ** _—_ ”

——

It was probably completely normal to feel guilty about the tree you’d killed last night, _right?_ Definitely wasn’t some weird _magically-connected-to-nature’s-wonders_ horseshit.

_Right?_

——

The fact that he was still thinking about the damn tree a whole week later probably meant that it was indeed some ‘ _magically-connected-to-nature’s-wonders horseshit_ ’. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. 

He could sense the first snowfall approaching in his bones, and without clothes or shelter in sight, he was feeling thoroughly screwed.

A particularly cold gust of wind hit him where he sat perched in a tree, hoping the branches would provide him with some cover. He grumbled and cursed the concept of winter as a whole, folding his wings around himself to try and trap some heat in. It worked surprisingly well and Not-Jaskier hummed in warm, satisfaction.

——

The thing that used to be Jaskier was _still_ Jaskier. 

He had decided this a day ago when he’d successfully convinced a herd of deer to keep him company through song. He’d serenaded and charmed many folk in his time, but _a whole family of four-legged friends?_ That was a new triumph; one for the books. 

So even as he shivered, his hoof prints mixing with those of his new friends in the light, powdery dusting of snow on the ground, he was content. He was happy. 

Because he was _still_ Jaskier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share some new art! It's a [character sheet for my Fae Jaskier design I made and posted on my Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/623104536261885952/he-hated-how-familiar-he-was-with-the-body-he-now) !  
> I added it here for those that don't have Tumblr.  
> I'll also eventually make a separate work on Ao3 so that I can post all the art for this fic at a larger size, for better viewing.   
> Chapter 7 took longer to edit because I spent way too much time working on the character sheet, so sorry for the delay! The next chapter will be out very soon!


	8. Predation

“Mmm, what do you think? Add a little more to the bottom? Cinch the waist a bit?” Jaskier pulled on the bottom of the long, off-white shirt he’d altered and turned from side to side, trying to catch a good angle in the tall, rudimentary gazing stone he’d magicked. “I could really use some input here Jasio.”

Jasio— a young stag in the herd Jaskier had befriended— simply gave a low _ burr  _ in reply before shaking his head of the snow that’d gathered there. 

“Oh, goodness, tell me what you really think,” retorted Jaskier. 

He frowned and thumbed at the edges of the shirt. He’d been lucky enough to find a large enough cut to work with, the previous owner must’ve been a  _ very _ large man indeed. Jaskier had made two slits down the bottom half of the shirt’s sides—giving his thighs some freedom— removed the sleeves entirely, cut out a hole for his tail, and added openings in the back for his wings, complete with lace fastenings at the top for easy removal. His work was not as neat as his mother’s, but she’d have surely been impressed with the alterations he’d made for his extra limbs. All in all, it wasn’t half bad considering the limited supplies he’d… _ ‘acquired’ _ . Certainly wasn’t one of his fancy doublets, but Jaskier was sure they didn’t make those in his  _ new _ size. This would have to do for now. 

“It is quite… drab though, isn’t it?” He mused, absently toying with the chest hair that poked out of the frilly, low ‘V’-cut, “ _ Hm _ . It nee _ eeeds _ … something other than this... yucky,  _ dingy _ white.”

Upon noting the sorry lack of color in his creation, the former bard frowned at the gazing stone and puffed up his wings in annoyance. 

It wasn’t like he was preparing to perform in front of an audience, but he still felt the need to feel  _ good _ about what he was wearing—even if the only other eyes around to judge his outfit belonged to deer. 

While traveling, Jaskier had finally brushed along civilization, and, with some progress finally achieved concerning his glamour, he’d been sneaking into forest-side towns to  _ ‘borrow’ _ supplies—like fabrics, sewing kits and the such. He’d even nabbed a hip satchel and an old leather sheath for his dagger; incredibly handy. However, the belt that held them up was… rather ugly. It’d be better off hidden actually. Perhaps with…

“ _ Aha!  _ A sash, of course! A splash of color around the waist is just what this outfit needs to tie it together.  _ Haha _ , get it?  _ Tieeee _ the outfit together?” Jaskier said, turning to grin lopsidedly at Jasio, who blinked slowly before walking away to inspect some fallen tree bark. 

“ _ Hmph _ . Geralt would’ve liked that one. He actually loves puns— big goofball once you get to know him… y’know this one time he…  _ oh never mind _ , I’ll be back, don’t go off too far without me, you hear!” 

With a snap the gazing stone’s reflective surface sloughed off the now unassuming boulder, and Jaskier turned on his heel to set off towards the nearest village. His herd would wander, but they never strayed too far without him; they’d grown fond of his presence, that much was obvious. 

Jaskier felt like he owed them for a bit of his sanity returning. Having living things around to talk to was important, especially for him. It’s not like they answered…well, not in _ detail  _ at least. He found that he could  _ ‘communicate’  _ with other creatures, in a way. He hadn’t really used the skill much in Sídhe-Sifra, having his brothers and sisters constantly around and ready for conversation, but in his current circumstance it was an absolute god-send of an ability. He could talk to them in common and they’d understand if he coated his words with the  _ intention _ of them understanding. Occasionally they’d reply, but usually only in clipped and simplistic sentences, like _ ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘I’m hungry’, ‘you look fine’, ‘please stop singing, it’s late, go to sleep’ _ and, weirdly,  _ ‘wind’s howling’ _ . Guess the weather seemed a more interesting conversation topic when your life consisted mostly of roaming and foraging for food. It made sense; just because they could communicate via Jaskier’s magic didn’t make them any more intelligent— they were simple beasts after all. Jaskier didn’t mind. Funnily enough, their short responses were actually kind of comforting, reminded him of a certain, equally quiet companion. 

On top of that, he wasn’t sure they’d tolerate him being too tardy in returning. Once, Jasio had apparently grown nervous over how long Jaskier had taken while out hunting and went to look for him. He’d run into Jasio on his way back and had to calm the young stag down after listening to him chuff and burr about  _ ‘being more careful’ _ and  _ ‘the dangers of wandering the forest alone’ _ . So if he couldn’t find his way back to them—unlikely with his newly heightened sense of smell— they could certainly find him. Besides, this little venture wouldn’t take too long. 

Jaskier had a decent lay of the land now, considering that the rate at which he traveled had slowed significantly due to harsher weather conditions. Snow tended to stall things, no wonder Geralt preferred to spend his winters in one place. To further familiarize himself with his surroundings, Jaskier took to eavesdropping on passing traders. He made sure to keep his distance and could still hear their low chatter if he pivoted his ears just so. From what he’d heard, he gathered that they were somewhere near Caingorn, just past the river of Braa. Having this information neither helped nor hindered, but it delighted him all the same. He could put a name to the snow covered peaks that rose over the tree line in the south: The Kestrel Mountains. He hadn’t slept through his geography course in Oxenfurt, and, with this information, knew roughly where he’d need to go to find proper civilization again… after he learned to fully glamour. 

He’d made steps in the right direction, but he’d only really managed to figure out size. He could now, _with a great deal of effort_ , shrink down very nearly to his previous height. His wings also shrunk considerably as he did this, and he lost a bit of the fur on his arms, but nothing else changed. It wasn’t enough to safely approach humans yet, but it had made sneaking around in the dark a bit easier. A smaller frame made smaller sounds, and that meant everything to a thieving Fae. Melina had explained as much when he’d questioned the height of her glamour after seeing it for the first time. 

Jaskier didn’t doubt for a second that she’d scold him if she could see what he was doing now. Call him  _ reckless _ . Maybe even get angry out of fear for his safety. 

The telltale  _ ‘crunch’ _ of a footstep in snow broke Jaskier out of his thoughts and alerted him to his proximity to the town. The sun had just begun its nightly descent over the horizon. He would wait for darkness to fall completely before glamouring and sneaking into town to find his prize. 

He sighed, knelt down in the snow—subconsciously mirroring the way he’d seen Geralt meditate— and waited. 

——

‘ _ This would do perfectly _ ,’ Jaskier thought to himself, reverently running a clawed hand over the silken material of the short, though fairly fancy, mustard-yellow curtain. In the low light of the moon, it gleamed like _ gold _ . 

Without further preamble, he ripped the cloth from its hinges and hastily folded it into his satchel before exiting the way he’d came: through the window. He crawled down the side of the ram-shackle two-story and tried not to feel guilty about snatching away part of what was probably a prized family heirloom, considering the drab state of the rest of the house. He should really start leaving gifts of some sort behind as an apology.  _ ‘Maybe fish?’ _ He considered while making his way silently between houses and through the town’s backroads, _ ‘or flowers? I could probably summon some flowers despite the cold…’ _

In hindsight, thinking about flowers and fish while escaping from a town he’d just stolen from, all while still looking like a lot like a monster… probably not his best idea. 

He’d already relaxed his guard considerably after crossing the tree line, and— gift ideas still on the mind— didn’t notice the obvious sounds his pursuers made behind him. 

Until it was too late. 

“ _ H-hey!! _ Beast!!” 

_ ‘Uh oh.’  _ Jaskier turned slowly, raising his hands in a show of peace. Might’ve worked once when his hands weren’t tipped with sharp weapons. 

Two sizable men—one half a head taller than the other— stood a couple paces away from him. They looked exactly how one would expect an average villager to look like. Both donned simple, rugged winter clothes— though the matching pelt capes looked nicely made—and smelled of a day’s hard work and a night’s round of ale. They also looked very similar, probably brothers… definitely brothers. The pair squinted at him, their vision—unlike his— significantly impaired in the darkness. 

“ _ Fuckin’ hell _ , Marek, think your stuttering’s gonna do any good ah’gainst the thing?” The slightly shorter man winced at his brother’s berating. He made to reply, but the other pushed him roughly on the shoulder and told him to stay behind him. 

The bigger brother stalked closer to Jaskier, sword in hand. 

Looking at the large weapon, Jaskier almost felt nervous. However, he could tell it was only steel and wouldn’t  _ really _ hurt him. Getting hit would hurt, sure, but he’d heal too fast to mope over the wound anyway. That was if they even managed to hit him, which wasn’t likely given there were only two of them; no one else was around, the fools. They’d followed him—alone and through the dark— right into his own turf. Maybe they were more inebriated than Jaskier had originally thought. 

“Why’re you smiling like that, yah devil? Saw you  _ creepin’ _ down Ol’ Miss. Gally’s place. The fuck were yer doin’ in there, _ huh?! _ ” The man accused, stepping boldly closer.

Jaskier laughed and shook his head, dropping his hands to his side, “Nothing quite as heinous as your thinking, I assure you. Just some  _ mild _ redecorating.” 

“ _ Fuck! _ It can talk!” Yelped the brother behind him.

“Of course I can, _how_ _rude_ ,” Jaskier said, pretending to pout, though rather ineffectively as his wings shook with amusement. 

Playing with them like this was probably another bad move on his part, as it only further angered the armed man. He scowled and stopped about five steps away from Jaskier. This close, the drink was undeniable on his breath and Jaskier had to cover his nose to muffle the stench. 

“Why don’t you fine men stumble back to your cozy little homes and let a humble  _ ‘devil’ _ go on his way, _ hm _ ? I’m sure your Miss. Gally won’t miss her old curtains for very long, and you two  _ really _ shouldn’t be out in this weather,” Jaskier chided, shit-eating-grin still plastered on his face. 

“Shouldn’t mock us,  _ monster!! _ It’ll only make yer end more  _ painful _ ,” the angry brother said, readying to swing his sword.

Jaskier was about to summon a branch from out of the thicket to knock the weapon from his hands… but it was then that he noticed the object in the smaller man’s shaky grip. 

He froze.

It was an _ iron skillet _ . 

His heart skipped a beat, and before he could act, he felt the cold sting of steel across his cheek. 

It was more painful than he anticipated and he fell backwards into the snow, now splotched with  _ crimson _ . 

_ ‘At least I still bleed red,’ _ he thought briefly, before receiving another blow, this time to the shoulder. 

He yelled and did his best to scurry backwards in the thick layer of snow. The other brother hadn’t even raised his skillet, but the nature-ingrained fear of the  _ iron _ had Jaskier in a near panic. 

He’d not released his glamour—though it now shakily threatened to release on its own— and his fear-addled mind hadn’t the chance to consider doing so, which left Jaskier suddenly feeling very,  _ very _ small under the angry, hulking man. 

“ _ Please, stop _ !” He yelped, using his wings to shield himself from the next strike.  _ A horrible idea. _ His wings were more sensitive than the rest of him and he _ howled _ in pain, the sound of a fragile flight bone cracking under the man’s sword.

“ _ Fuckin wuss of a devil!  _ Look at me while I kill you!” 

“Brother, _ stop!! _ It’s not even fighting back, it's learned its lesson, let it be!” The one with the iron pleaded, tugging on his brother’s shoulder. 

“N’what, jus’ let it free to thieve another night? Fuckin’ use yr head  _ ya shite fer brains! _ ” 

Jaskier dropped his wings just in time to see him raise his sword again. This time he rolled out of the way, crying out pitifully as the movement jostled his broken wing. The man laughed; a wretchedly gleeful sound. Jaskier felt a blunt pain shoot up his spine and cursed in Fae-speech. The bastard had _ stepped on his tail! _ A scared, whimpering, cowering Faerie, pinned down by the meager pressure of a man’s heel on his tail. 

How utterly humiliating. 

Jaskier flinched back as the man grew foolishly confident and crouched over him, leaning into his space. When he was mere inches away, the man  _ slid _ his hand over Jaskier’s throat and grinned manically as he watched the Fae’s eyes widen in fear. He squeezed and laughed at the gurgling, sputtering,  _ choking  _ sound Jaskier made. 

“Look at that brother…  _ isn’t that somethin’? _ ” The awful human purred. “I’m about to kill the thing with m’own  _ bare _ hands. I’m a right ol’ demon slayer, don’t need a  _ Fuckin’ Witcher _ .”

_ ‘Huh.’ _

Jaskier was suddenly hit with the memory of a fist fight he’d once caused when—after he’d finished playing  _ ‘Toss a Coin’ _ in some seedy tavern in Velen— someone had yelled, demanding he leave and take his ‘ _ dirty fucking Witcher _ ’ with him. The same feral,  _ blinding _ rage that’d lead him to break that drunkard’s nose that day returned in full force; it was as if something in him just  _ snapped _ . 

He barely heard the man’s surprised yelp of terror over his own ghoulish, growling. He felt his blood boil and his glamour melt away, as he curled over the form of the tiny, screaming human man. 

He tasted blood, warm and rich— a bold contrast against the stale cold of winter that surrounded them. A manic roar  _ ripped  _ itself from his throat and reverberated through the forest; a deafening warning, a herald of death. 

He bit and tore at the fragile thing beneath him, soft flesh parting under his claws like wet paper mache. 

It was the sound of something heavy dropping in the snow that finally wrenched his attention away from the carnage. The deceased man’s brother had dropped his iron skillet and stood staring in disbelief at the scene before him. 

For a moment… they both just stared at one another in eerie silence, save for Jaskier’s ragged panting. 

“.. **_.Leave_ ** ,” Jaskier growled lowly at him. 

Thankfully, the lone man had enough sense left in him to turn tail and run. 

Jaskier watched as his form disappeared into the night, and waited until his panicked footfalls faded from earshot.

...

He looked down at the massacred body and sneered. It was an offending sight, reminding him bitterly of his revolting, _ inhuman _ strength. Maybe this man could have used a Witcher after all. A Witcher to slay the mon—

“No!  _ No _ — **_fuck you_ ** —I’m not the monster here,” Jaskier spat at the corpse below, “ _ You’re _ the monster, you fucking  _ pig. _ ” 

Jaskier stood upright and sighed, taking a moment to calm himself. The danger was gone, he was alright and he  _ still  _ wasn’t a monster, despite what he’d just done. He’d only defended himself— no guilt in that. It was okay, now. 

_ It was okay _ .

He groaned as he rolled his wounded shoulder and agonizingly felt his poor wing flex as a result. 

So maybe it wasn’t okay  _ quite _ yet, but it would be. After he healed, and mended and cleaned his now tarnished clothes. 

He  _ tsked  _ and swept a clotted mass of gore from his thigh. 

“Just look at the state of me, it’ll take  _ hours _ to get these stains out.” 

He noticed the man’s cape had fallen off during the struggle and painfully bent to pick it up. As Jaskier had previously noted, the cape was of surprisingly good make. The length of it was made entirely of assorted light brown pelts, meticulously sewn together in a pleasing, patchwork design. It appeared that the hem of the cape was— _ironically enough_ — the thick, fur coat of a white wolf. 

Jaskier huffed in cold amusement.  _ ‘How fitting,’ _ he thought as he pulled on the dead man’s cape. 

He had to move fast now, he reminded himself. The man’s brother would surely return with reinforcements at some point, which meant this forest was no longer safe for him. Jaskier had to get as far as he could from the town, even if that meant climbing the Kestrel Mountains in the dead of winter. He hurried away from the gruesome scene, intent on making it back to his herd before midnight, knowing Jasio would be in hysterics if he returned any later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter cover will be posted soon [on my Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) ❤️


	9. Renaissance

Jaskier had gotten used to the hatred of men. 

Not long after his first assault, he experienced his second. Still injured, stumbling through the snow with his herd, he hadn’t been as alert as he should’ve been and took an arrow to the side. Hunters at the base of the Kestrel Mountains, taking advantage of the short break in stormy weather. They’d surely meant to hit a member of his herd instead, and their shocked expressions—even from afar— at seeing what they’d  _ actually _ shot confirmed that. One looked fearful and ever so slightly disgusted. His companion—hands already busy nocking another arrow—seemed curious, and there was something wicked in the way he narrowed his eyes and...  _ smiled _ . 

All but Jasio had fled when they drew near, and perhaps that helped a bit. Helped, because Jaskier was no longer simply defending himself, but a  _ friend _ as well. 

He let neither of them leave this time. 

He had several encounters like this while traveling up and through the mountain range. He’d learned that his light, if he focused it at the snow covered ground, was enough to blind a man. Jaskier came up with this trick after noting how, at times, the white of the forest floor burned brighter than even the sun’s own rays. He’d also learned that if he asked nicely, the withered brambles and thorns in the forest’s thicker areas would happily relocate to the insides of a man’s mouth. 

And so he made his way up the mountain, almost always in a half state of recovery, praying to Melitele that he’d reach safety before he met another human wielding iron instead of steel. Jaskier’s power was dampened in the winter, along with the rest of nature’s splendor, smothered by white and crippled by cold. Using his magic while wounded and without nature’s blessing was wearing him down physically, mentally, emotionally; something akin to the effects on a mage that unrestrained chaos took. 

He longed for the spring. 

——

Jaskier arrived at his destination not a moment too soon. 

It was a relatively flat area, save for the occasional dip. The plateau stretched wide enough to fit a dense forest, a sliver of the Buina river, and a quaint little town. Jaskier was enthused— in no small amount— at the cozy clearing he’d found there, with civilization just far away enough to be safe but close enough to pillage from. 

Winter was steadily losing its grip on the earth. Spring would soon come, he could feel it. Jaskier took a couple days to heal from the journey and huddled with his loyal herd for warmth. Once his strength returned, he’d set about mending and cleaning his battered outfit, and readying the clearing for his settlement. Perhaps it was unwise to choose to settle here, but he was tired and desperately needed a break from travel, and the town nearby seemed to hunt smaller game, perhaps dissuaded by the unusually high population of bears and wolves in the area. 

Said town— Jaskier soon learned that it was called Lubihtorrach from a half fallen sign— was… how to put it…. _sad_ looking. Melitele must have turned her loving gaze away from the village as it seemed to be nothing but a ghost town now; structures creaking, wood rotting, inn and tavern deserted, and crop plots _barren_. He viewed the sorry place from the safety of tree and bush, and found it quite easy to avoid being seen given the commonly downcast gaze of the inhabitants. He felt… genuinely sorry for them. Despite his recent abuse at the hands of humans, Jaskier still understood that was not the nature of _all_ of humanity. He might look like a devil— well… _no,_ scratch that, the last thing he’d mistaken for a devil had just been a Sylvan, a friend of Filavandrel’s. Wrong analogy. He might _look_ _scarier_ than he had as a human bard, but his heart was the same as ever, and thus he couldn’t stop it from bleeding a little at the sight of sorry old Lubihtorrach. 

Thus, Jaskier was not afraid of the town or its people, which allowed him to more freely roam its outskirts. There—in an uncommon stroke of luck— he found a little, run-down shack. It looked as if no one had dwelled there in years, the inside thoroughly dust covered; ravaged by the effects of time. It would be so nice to just move in and settle there. Enjoy its warmth, its walls and roof; protection from the elements. However, he knew it was far too close to the town, and he wasn’t about to test fate for the sake of ease. So, seeing as it was very obviously abandoned, Jaskier felt justified in his decision to play vulture and salvage what he could from the place. Like the old saying goes: One man’s trash is another man’s last and only chance at enduring the final stretch of Winter’s ruthlessly freezing onslaught on his aching, shaking bones. 

After a couple trips back and forth from the shack to his clearing, He realized he might as well just…  _ take the entire thing _ . In pieces of course. There was no way he could move the entire house, even with how utterly tiny it was. He was no builder, but he reasoned he could figure out how to reassemble the little structure himself. How hard could it be? Deconstruct it, pay attention to how things connected; It certainly looked simple enough. 

Of course it wasn’t, though, and Jaskier soon found himself playing the most frustrating puzzle game imaginable once back at his clearing. He’d moved a good portion of the planks and other assorted materials—somewhat roughed up from his _less-than-gentle_ disassembly— with the help of Jasio and a few others from the herd who didn’t mind the extra weight on their backs. It’d taken four whole days of Jaskier repeatedly swearing on Melitele that he was finally giving up before he’d made a breakthrough. With spring’s grasses finally peaking through the melting snow, Jaskier’s power was bristling, ready to work. With the aid of some helpful vines and a couple of well placed and eager saplings, Jaskier was able to get the thing to stand. He wove the greenery between the walls that couldn’t quite meet on their own, plugged the holes in the roofing with thick braided knots of vine, and fastened the corners of the structure together with assorted plant life. Technically, It was cheating, sure… but Jaskier actually thought it looked nicer like that, overtaken by nature; one with the forest. At that point, with winter close to thawing, Jaskier had only the porch steps left to bring over from the shack’s original site. 

Jaskier was in the process of removing the planks from the steps when he heard the slow, but distinctive, approach of a human.  _ Odd. _ What kind of business would a townsperson have out here? Curious, he ducked behind a nearby bush and waited.

It was an old man, hobbling along with the assistance of a long stick, turned cane. He was hunched and pale, skin wrinkled and thin with age. His eyes were set in a permanent squint; foggy but resolutely holding on to sight. It was cold out— yes— but the old man wore clothes far heavier than needed for the weather and still held the posture of a person thoroughly chilled. This man posed no threat whatsoever; despite his proximity to a human, Jaskier felt… fairly safe. Far different from his more recent encounters.

As Jaskier watched, the old man came closer and closer before eventually stopping before the steps where the shack once sat. Finally he seemed to notice its absence and thoughtfully hummed while working the strap of his goat-hide satchel off his shoulder. 

“Hmm, look at that, Ada. The old place up and walked away.” 

Jaskier felt the dreadful beginnings of guilt creep through him upon hearing this, but the old man surprised him with a hearty laugh, and the guilt melted into further curiosity. 

“Don’t tell me you became Baba Yaga’s sister in passing,  _ hm _ ? Probably duck legs that carried you away instead though, you always liked my duck stew.” The man laughed to himself some more, turned and heavily plopped down on the steps with an elderly, strained grunt.

“I’m almost done with her, Ada. When the rest of the place walks off I can make you a proper shrine,” the old man pulled a wooden carving—the form of which Jaskier couldn’t identify from his viewpoint in the bushes—out of his bag, along with a carving knife, “So you can sit atop it, like a right ol queen. Keep watch on Lubih from here, closer to the ground. Hmf, I imagine fluttering overhead on wing probably gets rather tiresome.” 

Jaskier felt a bittersweet tug upon his heartstrings as he realized he was watching the man talk to his passed wife. The elderly man had started working on whatever he was carving and was mumbling some news about their children to this ‘Ada’ when Jaskier finally decided it was time he was on his way. He started to back away slowly when the man suddenly laughed again, freezing Jaskier in place.

“You can come out now, y’know?” The man turned his head to where Jaskier was crouching and smiled. “It’s alright, I’m far too old to be spooked by forest folk. Besides, Ada and I rather like company.” 

Then he simply turned back to his carving and continued. 

Jaskier was reasonably  _ stunned _ . How had he known he’d been there? Had he really been that careless to let an old man spot him like that? Or did the man have some weird sort of  _ sixth sense _ that allowed him to see former-bards-turned-fae cleverly hidden in the bushes… only a couple paces away from the house they were obviously stealing… _ ok _ , so maybe he’d been careless. 

The man very purposefully cleared his throat and patted the ground next to him in invitation. 

‘ _Well, at this point it would be somewhat rude to ignore him_ ,’ Jaskier thought. However, he’d really prefer it if the man didn’t see his face. When he finally learned to glamour, he’d like to go back to being _Jaskier the Bard_ , and didn’t want to risk being recognized as having an uncanny resemblance to _Jaskier the Monster_. He wanted to preserve his anonymity, but it wasn’t like he had a mask on him. All he had in his satchel was— ‘ _Ah!_ _The curtain!’_ The curtain he’d planned to make a sash out of! That would do perfectly. Mentally patting himself on the back for being the _genius_ problem solver he was, he pulled the curtain out and hurriedly wrapped it around his face… Jaskier would’ve tried a little harder if he wasn’t already keeping the man waiting. 

He, again, thought briefly of the pain humans had inflicted upon him: the searing cold of steel, a hand like a vise around his neck… Jaskier shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t live in fear forever, and he refused to throw away his first chance in a while to have an interaction with a person that didn’t end in bloodshed. 

He slowly sort of shuffled out of his hiding place, worrying his size would scare the human man off. However, the old man seemed completely unperturbed—didn’t even look over as Jaskier sat gingerly beside him. He just turned the carving over in his hands and blew some of the wood shavings off before making another mark on it with his knife. Jaskier could see the carving closer now and realized it must be a representation of the man’s wife, Ada. The carving was nearly done, only the lower right where the man currently labored seemed unfinished. It depicted a kind old woman sitting cross-legged, with what appeared to be a bundle of roses placed in her lap. The details were _immaculate_ , from the roses themselves, their petals slight and fragile, to Ada’s hands placed gently over them, as if protecting them from the harsh world. But the most lovingly rendered part of the statuette—the part that really gave life to figure in the old man’s hands— was the _smile_. The smile was full and genuine and _so wide_ that it raised her cheeks all the way up to her eyes, creating crows-feet that ran through her wrinkles like valleys— deep valleys that echoed with all the times she’d laughed and smiled, _every moment_ she’d been happy. They were the same wrinkles Jaskier saw around the old man’s own eyes, and he thought, with every fiber of his hopeless romantic soul, that they must have brought each other that happiness. A magical, unending love that, it seemed, even death could not touch. _How he wished for that kind of love._

Jaskier hadn’t noticed that he’d leaned in to observe the figure closer. He’d been too taken with the art to notice anything else. The old man didn’t seem to mind, though, and just held it closer for Jaskier to look at through the gaps in his funny, curtain head-dress. He only moved back when the man spoke again.

“It’s my Ada. We lived here ‘fore she got the sickness. Moved in with my kids after that—to the middle of Lubih— just didn’t feel the same without her around.” He was quiet for a beat before continuing, “I should thank yah, really, ‘fore clearing this place out. Been bugging my sons to do it for years, but they got lives of their own and whatnot. I know Ada wouldn’t’ve wanted the place to become a crusty old husk though, standing alone all empty and sad. She woulda’ wanted roses… a rose garden, maybe a birdbath so other living things could come visit her, ‘sides just me.” The old man huffed fondly at that and finally glanced over at Jaskier.

“ _ Hah _ , you’re pretty big, huh?” He smiled and turned back to his carving. “Not a problem in the forest I suppose, but might be an issue passin’ through doors and the such. You watch your horns when entering the old place, alright?” 

Jaskier didn’t really know how to respond, so he just nodded and continued to watch the man work. Eventually the man started rambling about other things: his carpentry, his sons and daughters, their journeys in and out of town, and, finally, the town of Lubihtorrach itself. He talked about their longstanding misfortune, how the village had ended up in such a sorry state and the toll it’d taken on its few remaining inhabitants. He told Jaskier the town had been founded a couple generations back by his great grandfather, Ziemowit Buidhe, and offhandedly added that he could call him Mr. Buidhe if he liked. The Buidhe family had settled here for the geography. Apparently the crop they sought to farm would do wonderfully in that exact climate and elevation. For nearly two generations they farmed and brought back plentiful harvest season after season. The farming plots grew larger and larger and attracted many young families looking for work and residence. So the town flourished, the people prospered, and their product— along with the name ‘Buidhe’— spread far and wide upon the backs of traders and travelers alike. 

Then, sometime after his father took over the family business, it was as if all the gods they’d prayed to night after night just… turned away and withdrew their favor. All the land on the plateau had mysteriously become _infertile_ … odder still, the land supported all walks of _natural_ flora and fauna. Wild grain and fruit and flower all still thrived, but anything planted by hand would grow in already dead, leaves weeping a dull celadon green. A curse had swept their once vibrant town and slowly turned it into the shadow land it currently was. No one really knew what had happened to incit such ill luck, but there were many speculations that it had something to do with the departure of Mr. Buidhe’s mother. Mr. Buidhe explained he was much too young at the time to remember it himself, but that he had been told that the day his mother left, a furious storm covered Lubihtorrach and raged for five days after the fact. 

Still, every spring the residents would try to plant again, hoping that one day a commiserative god may take pity on them and graciously breathe life back into Lubih. 

Mr. Buidhe paused his work then and sighed. 

“I know not if our misery was the work of my mother, but even if it was, I feel I haven’t the heart to blame her. My father was a  _ cruel man _ . I thank Melitele everyday for allowing me such happiness as I found with Ada. I really had no concept of love before her, and yet she saved me with hers all the same.” The old man turned to Jaskier and hummed, quizzically. “Do you have someone out there like that, my friend?” 

_ ‘Geralt.’ _ Jaskier thought immediately, and was almost stunned at how instant his heart had responded with the Witcher’s name. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of Geralt in a while. He’d been focused on surviving and recovering; he hadn’t the energy to long for his old friend. At least, he hoped they were still friends—that Geralt still thought of him, _ remembered him _ , after all this time. 

His wings and ears drooped solemnly, tail curling around him, as he quietly uttered the first words he’d said to the old man. “ _ I hope so _ , Mr. Buidhe. I…  _ certainly  _ hope so.” 

The old man nodded, a look of understanding clear in his thoughtful expression. He then smiled once again, the same warm smile of his Ada. “You have a  _ kind  _ voice. Please, don’t be shy to share it with me again one of these days, hm?” 

Mr. Buidhe tucked his carving and tools safely back into his satchel and closed it with a gentle hand. Jaskier thought about what he said and suddenly felt very,  _ very _ thankful for the conversation. In the moment, he thought of only one way to show his appreciation, and so reached tentatively out for the man’s hand. Mr. Buidhe— not minding or fearing the prospect of Jaskier’s touch— simply flipped his hand over for Jaskier to take, and for a moment he marveled at how  _ small _ the old man’s hand was in his own. 

He dipped his head down and placed a light kiss to the man’s open palm, and as he pulled away, there, a single rose bud appeared and all at once bloomed. 

The old man gaped at the perfect little flower in his hand for a bit before turning to look back at Jaskier. There were tears in his eyes as he smiled, and he asked, his tone bearing reverence, “ _ For Ada _ ?” 

Jaskier nodded again and bowed his head when the man thanked him. He’d grow the man a whole garden of roses here for Ada, seeing how happy just a single bud had made him. 

The old man then gingerly rose to his feet, accepting a hand from Jaskier and bracing himself on his cane, once standing. He placed the rose in a wide mouthed pocket and mumbled something about showing his children the ‘ _ little marvel _ ’. 

Mr. Buidhe carefully shouldered his satchel and patted Jaskier on the back. 

“You’re something special, young man. Y’really are.  _ Remember that. _ ” 

Again, Jaskier was at a loss of words— _ astounding as it was _ — and so simply bowed his head once more and waved him off. He watched as the man disappeared through the trees, back on the path to Lubihtorrach and thought about what he’d said. 

He wasn’t convinced he was anything _ ‘special’ _ — not anymore, at least—, but still the compliment took comfortable residence in his chest and warmed him from the inside out. Ascending the Kestrel Mountains, he’d been attacked and cursed and called all manner of  _ foulery _ … but here he’d been thanked and shown  _ kindness _ — kindness he hadn’t received since…  _ hm. _

_ ‘Better not to dwell,’ _ he thought. 

Jaskier called out to Jasio, and together they brought the rest of the old shack back to the clearing. The steps were far easier assembled, and that night he settled into a completed home; pleasantly insulated and—better yet— all his own. 

He drifted off with a smile on his face and plans of good will on the mind. 

——

The next morning brought a strong, blazing sun, hot and bright and oh so welcome. The last remaining clumps of muddy slush still left on the ground cleared away, melting into fresh green grass that seemed to have sprouted overnight. 

‘ _ Gone is the winter _ ,’ said this morning. ‘ _ Gone is the winter, for life is awake and yawning. Let her stretch and bloom, for Spring is dawning. _ ’ 

The warm breeze sang such things to Jaskier as he fished under that happy sun. He glided lazily on a low hanging current, diving down into the water of the Buina to snatch a trout who’s shadow looked promisingly plump. He already had a hearty pile of fish set upon a boulder by the river’s bank. Those he planned to give to the townspeople, who he noticed looked about as starved as himself. In Sídhe-Sifra he’d been well fed and healthy, but out here he’d only _ just _ started eating regularly again. The winter had chiseled away at the nice layers of fat and muscle he’d had, and left his ribs and collarbones exposed,  _ straining _ against his skin. The rich oil in the fish would surely do him some good, and why not share the bounty while he was at it? 

That afternoon, Jaskier perched—out of sight— in the trees around Lubihtorrach, and waited for folks to leave their houses so he could creep up and place a hearty bundle on their windowsills. He was very careful this time, but the villagers were also too busy to really observe their surroundings, and thus he carried out his task with ease. He scented out Mr. Buidhe’s house—the one he shared with his children— and left extra for them, along with a collection of flowers and another little, rubious rose. 

Content, he turned to sneak away and leave, but the sight of an empty soil plot at the edge of town caught his attention. He remembered what Buidhe had told him, about the curse that plagued their soil, and found he couldn’t stop himself from investigating. He wrapped the curtain-made-sash around his head before creeping up to the plot, just in case someone spotted him while his attentions were on the empty field. The rows of ploughed dirt were divided and sectioned by evenly spaced sticks jutting up from the ground that might’ve once been the skeletons of fences, but now only served as border markers. A barn—that looked as if a whisper of wind could topple it—stood in between the farm and the town, shielding it from view. Satisfied with the cover, Jaskier bent down to address the soil issue. He sniffed at it and raked a clawed hand over a loose, dry mound. 

_ He sneezed _ .

That certainly smelled  _ wrong _ . It smelled like old ash and anger, resentment and chaos. A human mage had spat on the ground here and scared away the blessings of spring that once thrived within the soil. However, this magic was barely holding on as it was. The caster must be forgetting the anger they had for this place, either forgetting or forgiving. The curse would be easy to lift, he just needed to convince the ground that it  _ could  _ grow again. This would take time though, and concentration; best not to start with the sun still high in the sky. He’d have to return under cover of darkness… and hope no one was around. Jaskier heard a flapping of wings above him and stood back up to see an owl land on top of the rickety barn. 

_ ‘Hm.’  _

“Feathery friend, hello! How do you do?” Jaskier started, rather awkwardly. “I was wondering if maybe, if you’d be so kind as to lend me a hand— _ er _ , wing?” 

The owl tilted his head and urged him to go on with a questioning trill. 

“Ah, alright. It would be rather helpful if you could keep a look out after sunset and let me know when the coast is clear. Y’know,  _ human free _ ?” 

The bird gruffly hooted back at him.

“What do you mean  _ ‘how will I find you?’ _ I’ve seen you fluttering around my herd in the evenings, you know where I live.” 

An impatient fluffing of wings and a silent stare.

“...Alright, yes, and I’ll bring you a nice fish for your troubles, that work for you?”

The owl hooted happily in response to that. Jaskier sighed in relief and thanked them before retreating back into the forest. 

——

Four days had passed since he’d made the deal with the owl— who he’d lovingly nicknamed ‘Hooty’— and he’d made good progress with the fields; the curse was close to breaking. A couple more visits and Jaskier was sure he’d be able to grow whatever they had tried to plant there, and with dazzling speed, too. He’d been practicing his green thumb on growing roses in the place the shack had been— an area that both he and Mr. Buidhe had started calling _ Ada’s Garden. _ He’d spoken only briefly to the old man the other day, and was happy to hear his gifts had been well received. The townsfolk had been baffled by the fishy surprise, and even more confused at Mr. Buidhe’s explanation of it being ‘ _ A gift from our friend in the forest _ .’ 

Turned out the old man had a great sense of humor and enjoyed seeing his neighbors fumble, fish-mouthed in confusion. 

Currently, Jaskier sat on a log near his little home, the outer walls of which were covered in flowering vines that had appeared, it seemed, while he slept. He busied himself with a new project, as Jasio munched on some grass and watched him work. He was carefully threading a needle in and out and side to side leaving a trail of gold through a light, silky portion of sky blue cloth. The pattern— about halfway done— was of a playfully stylized, golden sun and a dandelion, in full bloom, its stem coiled around the sun’s middle. 

The fabric had been too beautiful to resist, and he’d deeply missed the calm repetitive motions of sewing. Jaskier had been watching over the town— a nicer way of saying  _ ‘snooping’ _ — when he’d spotted the fabric outside the tailor’s house. He rarely saw the woman come outside, but she was fun to watch whenever she did, as she would use that time out to hunt down torn trousers and holey blouses and joyfully drag her victims back to her shop to patch up. 

That day, her actions were more peculiar than usual. She’d pulled out an old bench and laid her wares out across them, all her finest work on display along with a few bare runs, one of which being the blue beauty Jaskier instantly knew he  _ had _ to have. About a half hour later, a trader walked into town, traveling the main path through the village which passed by the tailor’s house. The tailor—who Jaskier had started calling ‘Julep’ after catching wind of her strong, minty rose-water perfume— had been pacing by her window, looking the most nervous he’d ever seen her. When she spotted the trader, she’d darted outside so quickly Jaskier feared she’d trip! Julep patted down her skirts, pretended to busy herself with her fabrics and waved at the trader as if she was surprised to see him when he reached her table. 

Jaskier’s hearing was impressive, but not impressive enough to quite reach where they were, so he called a nearby robin over and promised them a lively mealworm if they could flutter down and relay to him their conversation. The hungry bird agreed and glided down to sit atop Julep’s house. 

Jaskier patiently waited and hoped for a good outcome for Julep’s sake. The trader seemed to go on about something for a bit, and Julep chuckled and waited for her chance to show her fabrics. However, once she started talking, an excited gleam in her eyes, the trader threw his head back and laughed rather rudely, causing Julep’s smile to fall and wither pitifully. Jaskier’s wings drooped in sympathy as the trader walked away and Julep forlornly packed her set-up away. The little robin flew back up and told Jaskier the incredibly  _ cruel _ words the man had said to her. Apparently he’d been completely dismissive and told her that  _ nothing _ worth  _ anything _ could come from a tailor based in Lubih. 

Poor  _ poor _ Julep.  _ The man would regret that. _

That night, before he went to tend to the fields, he found the trader on the main path, already quite a ways out of town. He had set up camp and fallen soundly asleep, blissfully unaware of the misfortune that awaited him come morning. 

Jaskier nabbed all his coin, half his goods, and his stupid, silly feathered hat. For good measure, he strung up the rest of his belongings by thorny vines, creating a fantastically silly display of wobbly bobbles hanging from overhead branches. With the occasional gust of wind, the branches swayed and dipped, giving them the look of a puppeteer’s fingers bopping playfully above the sleeping man. What a delightfully ingenious prank—  _ oh how he’d missed this! _ An absolutely mischievous joy bubbled up in Jaskier’s chest at the sight and the Fae in him urged his feet into fluttering dance; hooves silently beating the grass as he skipped and spun from the thrill. Jaskier left the place before his voice could betray him and burst into song, and made his way back to Lubih’s tailor shoppe. 

Julep was already fast asleep in her bedroom, so Jaskier crept in through the backdoor, forgetfully left unlocked, and tiptoed over to the chest of fabric. The blue run wasn’t hard to find at all, its roll near the top of the bunch. Jaskier cut himself a tidy portion of it, borrowed a needle thinner than the ones he already had, and took a spool of golden yellow thread, already halfway through. On top of the chest he left most of the coin he’d stolen from the trader— only keeping a handful of crowns to himself, _ just in case _ — along with some flowers he’d summoned up, and a hastily written ‘ _ thank you _ ’ on some parchment the trader had carried. He hoped the offering would be enough for what he’d taken, as he quietly slunk back out to tend the fields.

Now as he looked at the fabric in his hands, at the beautiful little pattern coming to life on its surface, he felt almost grateful for the nasty trader, mostly for how easy he’d been to steal from.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! A long chapter for once! ✨  
> My fav person had me rolling with laughter last night with a [Meme they made based on the last chapter](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/623473442925232128/chaos-smith-absolutely-killed-me-last-night-with) 😂


	10. Devotees

It was on the sixth night that the curse finally yielded to his magic. 

Hooty— given the promise of extra fish— had agreed to watch over him the entire evening, as Jaskier knew he’d have to give his full attention to his work that night. Indeed, the curse proved stubborn at the very end, and Jaskier strained himself so hard that his hands shook, beads of sweat gathering at his temple. 

He completely missed the warning calls that Hooty hollered from above. 

A large but oddly silent wave of energy cracked out all around him, as if he were a pebble thrown into a lake, and the air the water in which he’d made an astounding ripple. The aftershock came as an undulating wind that shook the trees in bursts, giving the forest the brief appearance of having a visible heartbeat. The rancid smell that’d hung over the soil immediately dispersed, replaced with the familiar, healthy musk of spring. In that moment, Jaskier had felt a surge of delight so strong and inspiring that flooding the fields with new green life now seemed a meager task. 

And that it was. 

Jaskier _snapped_ his wings open wide, wind cracking at their feathered tips and a pulse of light radiating from his center. He let his magic guide him, let it take him, move him, show him where to prod and pull with his mind to coax the crop from out the ground. He bent down low, and with his hands he grasped the air and _heaved_ upwards, the plots around him bursting with green so bright it rivaled the very moonlight above. 

Jaskier stumbled, nearly falling backwards after the weight of the spell fell from his hands. He let out a small, disbelieving laugh of relief and looked out at the _wonder_ he’d created. The former barren wasteland was now probably the most gorgeous and lush plantation to ever grace the Northern Realms—perhaps the entire Continent. Most of the rows were dominated by towering, fragrant plants with thin but sturdy stems, covered in large leaves with long, serrated sections. Whatever the plant was, it was surely their major crop. Smaller plots further away looked to be a collection of various vegetables and fruit, wheat and herbs; A farmer’s _paradise_. 

Before he could properly celebrate the achievement… _he heard a shuffling of feet behind him._

Jaskier— suddenly feeling very grateful for the silly, yellow scarf he wore around his head— whipped around to find himself face to face… with an elf. 

_An elf?? Here?_

He was a tall, lanky adult elf. His thin face and rosy cheeks hinted he was barely out of his teens, and the man’s current expression made him look younger still, as he gazed up at him with the slack-jawed, wide open wonderment of a child. 

Before Jaskier could think of his next move, the elf pointed at the fields and, quite observantly said, “Crop. There’s… crop. In the fields.” 

Jaskier—yet again stunned to silence by a villager's words— didn’t quite know how to respond. For, _yes_ , that was true. Crop was certainly there in the fields, where it wasn’t a moment prior. He merely nodded.

“ _There’s_ …. there’s never been… not as long as I’ve lived here, _there’s never been_ …. a-and then you just,” the elf clumsily mimicked what he’d seen Jaskier do, pulling at the air with his hands and making _‘whooshing’_ sound effects. “ _Like that!_ And then—“

Jaskier cocked his head as he watched the man make more odd noises and gestures. He was a little wobbly, his eyes a bit red. Most likely from some sort of recreational indulgence. _‘Some ale too’,_ Jaskier noted as he sniffed the air between them. 

“And now it’s just! And _you’re_ just! And _I’m_ just! I’m just…” The young elf seemed to realize something suddenly and started to fluster. “ _Oh!_ Forgive me, m-my lord, uh, _my grace_? I know not what to address you as, _but please!_ Accept my thanks,” the man dropped down in front of Jaskier, knees thumping heavily on the ground. “On behalf of Lubihtorrach, _thank you, thank you, thank you_ , oh _merciful_ spirit.” 

_‘Oh boy,’_ Jaskier thought. _‘He thinks I’m a god.’_

The _Only-a-Fae-and-Definitely-Not-a-God_ chuckled— though not unkindly— at the sight of the elf on his knees, and gently pulled him up by the shoulders, back into a standing position. 

The man blinked owlishly at Jaskier, who then warmly whispered, “You need not kneel for me.” 

He thought he sounded rather _cool_ and _stoic_ in that instance, and mentally patted himself on the back. _‘Good one, Jask.’_

The elf scratched the back of his head and frowned in thought. 

“Then what would you have me do as thanks?” 

“Nothing,” Jaskier smiled under his head-garb. “Nothing at all. I _wanted_ to help.” 

“Well that won’t do, there must be… _ah!_ ” The elf went rummaging in his pockets and pulled out something wooden and long. 

He held it out to Jaskier and bowed his head.

“Please. Accept something at least, if only to put my heart at ease, my—uh— _divinity_ … sir.”

Jaskier bit back another laugh and felt his cheeks warm and flush. The show of gratitude was so genuine and kind, what could he do but accept? 

He gently took the object from the elf and saw it was an ornately carved pipe made of birch wood, white and dark rings painting its sides. This kind of pipe looked suited for smoking grass for pleasure, like nostrix and… 

Jaskier turned to the plots and looked back at the tall, bushy plants. 

“Your town trade is in _pipe weed_ ,” he stated, finally connecting the dots. “Buidhe’s export was _Yellow Sunder!_ ” 

Back in Oxenfurt he’d once enjoyed a small bag of Yellow Sunder. His friends, who claimed the stuff was of _‘legendary’_ quality, had laughed when he told them he’d never heard of the grass. He remembered it had been a _great_ night. 

The elf nodded with a big, happy grin. Probably proud he’d heard of the name. 

“Buidhe Grass used to be _famous!_ Perhaps it will be once more…” the young man giggled. “Ha, _be_ . Like _bees._ They like the fruit flowers, maybe they’ll come back now…. _oh!_ ” He gasped and hopped up and down excitedly. “ _We’ll have honey again!_ Honey and _sweets!_ Mr. Lord-Sir, do you like sweets?” 

Jaskier smiled warmly at the man’s excitement and bent down, patting the elf’s shoulder with his free hand. 

“Sweets are wonderful, but it is late and I think you should rest, as should I,” Jaskier stood back up and held the pipe to his chest, “And I thank you for the gift, it is _beautiful_.” 

The elf beamed up at him and bowed his head again, stumbling over more hurried thanks and praises. 

Jaskier watched the man scuttle back to the barn and hoped he at least had a bedroll somewhere in there. Once the elf was out of sight, he took his own leave, thoughts swimming in his head. 

What would the people of Lubihtorrach think of their magically grown crop? How would the town change? Would the young elf tell them what he saw?

…. _would they believe him?_

——

The sun walked its path in the sky many a time over, and as the days gradually grew longer and warmer, Jaskier knew it was finally summer. Summer with its _blessed heat_. The lazy Fae found a new favorite pastime in basking in the golden orb’s glow, wings stretched and tail curling in contentment. 

It was the happiest he’d been all year.

He kept watch over the town and _marveled_ at its changes. Once sad and quiet, the village now burst with life and business. Word had gotten out fast after Jaskier’s work on the fields, and traders came in and out many times a day now, _begging_ to hear when shipments could be arranged. Coin was already circulating back into the hands of Lubihtorrach’s people, and the effect was quickly noticeable. Repairs to the tavern and inn had started, Julep had set up a permanent booth outside the shopee to show her wares, the fountain in the square now had flowing water and, best of all, people were _smiling_.

People smiled and laughed as they tended the fields, and they did so because Jaskier helped them. _He’d_ made them smile, not unlike how he used to make the crowds of people he performed for smile. Maybe one day he’d sing for them, make music for them, watch them dance; perhaps then he could call himself a bard once more and _know it to be true_. 

For now, he revelled in their happiness, and kept himself busy finding new ways to make them smile. 

Gifts of trout and flowers were all well and good, but he’d gotten more creative since then. The few children in the town would often wake up to flower woven crowns at their bed sides, Julep would discover clean, tanned pelts hung on her window sill, buildings would mysteriously decorate themselves with flowering vines in the night, and someone had finally fixed the old sign marking Lubihtorrach. For Mr. Buidhe, he’d helped erect a natural birdbath made of woven vine and stone in Ada’s Garden. Now her little, wooden figure had something lively to watch from atop her log-carved shrine. 

Jaskier took immense pleasure in performing these minor miracles for them. It gave him something to be proud of again, _someone to care for again_. 

Though this time that someone was an entire, _thankful_ village and not a single, _grumpy_ Witcher... 

And the townspeople were _indeed_ thankful; graciously so. He’d occasionally find little gifts they’d left for him at the forest’s edge. Things like painted rocks from the children, bundles of Yellow Sunder, bags of nuts and dried fruit, bowls of mulled wine and—surely the doing of his elven friend— sweets. 

Clearly the elf had remembered their short conversation, and took his response to liking sweets to heart. Truth was, he’d never been particularly fond of them. Geralt was the one with the secret sweet-tooth, not him. But there he was, with gift upon gift of honeyed treats. 

He’d been nervous to try the food, though decadent and enticing, he still clearly remembered what had happened last he tried cooked meat; _normal_ food. However, he felt it’d be rude to not at least _try_ the treats, especially after so much care had gone into their making. 

So he’d eaten them.

And he didn’t get sick. 

_And they were_ _delicious_. 

After a couple experiments with bits of hare and water fowl, Jaskier found that he only held aversion to _cooked_ meat. He needed meat raw— that much was certain— but his tongue apparently still delighted in the taste of other foods. He’d ranted to Jasio for an entire afternoon about his own stupidity in the matter. In Sídhe-Sifra he’d enjoyed the nectar of fruit and flower on a regular basis, and always went out with his siblings to gather wild berries for Feasting nights. If he could eat those then, why not now? Instead, he’d rushed to the silly and self-pitying decision that he was a beast and would only ever eat as one for the rest of his days. 

“How dramatic of me,” he laughed as he popped another berry in his mouth and hummed happily at the sweet burst of juice. 

The sun had long gone down, but still the summer heat persisted, warming his hands as he worked on his sewing project. 

“One last knot _and_ …” Jaskier used his teeth to cut the end of the thread, “There!” 

He held up his creation and _purred_ in satisfaction. 

Quite literally, too. He wasn’t aware he could purr until a week ago when he first tried a strawberry tart. 

The rectangle of blue fabric had the finished flower and sun insignia proudly displayed in its center. The top corners each had two lengths of ribbon, cropped short enough for him to easily tie. It was good work. Clean work. _His_ work.

His mother would be proud. 

With joy in his heart, he began to sing. 

He wasn’t sure what it was, he’d heard his Elder perform it only once on the day of summer solstice. It was in Fae Tongue and sounded somehow both like a crooning love song and a fervent celebration of life. It swam through the air in briskly clipped syllables, deep, hauntingly beautiful howls, and lovingly smooth legatos. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sang, completely entranced by his own sound, but was certainly surprised to be met with applause as he finished. 

Jaskier startled and hid his face in his hands, dumbly forgetting the purpose of the fabric in his lap. 

Then he heard bubbly giggling and slid a couple fingers aside to peer through.

To his relief, he found it was just a little girl, maybe ten years at the most. He sighed and dropped his hands, setting aside his work to shuffle on knee over to the child. 

“How’d you get here, little one? This is no place for an itty-bitty such as yourself.” 

“I got lost again, looking for mother’s favorite mushrooms,” she replied, fearlessly reaching up to touch one of Jaskier’s horns. He bent his head for her and smiled as she gasped in wonder.

“The hunt for mushrooms really carried you all the way out here?” His little shack was a long way from town, it would’ve been at least a day’s travel for little feet like her’s. 

“Mhm, mostly. I got distracted though. My brother, Eraim, tells me I have a busy brain. Busy bees, he says, are prone to wandering, cause they like to fly far, from flower to flower and hive to hive! I keep telling him I’m named after a flower and not a bee; don’t think he gets it.”

Jaskier tilted his head in thought and scratched his fuzzy chin. 

“Eraim is an Elven name though, isn’t it?”

“Mhm, that’s right! He’s adopted, I think.” The girl explained and reached next for Jaskier’s lazily thumping tail.

“Well then, what a coincidence. I think I met your brother a while back.” 

“Oh, I know. He talked about you non-stop for a week after the crop returned,” she mumbled, now more focused on petting the tail she’d caught. “He talks a lot, but I like that. He’s my favorite brother.” 

“I see. So that’s how you recognized me.” 

“Yes, how could I not!” The girl lowered her voice in attempt to copy her brother’s, “ _His divinity is splendorous, his wings great and wide enough to shield our whole family, his horns— a crown— between which could fit the sun itself! Unendingly beautiful and kind, I felt no fear in his presence. None at all, only immense and ever-rapturous joy!_ ” The girl shrugged, “You’re beautiful for sure, but I think he oughta mentioned your voice instead. You sing like a nightingale!” 

Jaskier found himself overtaken with amusement at the girl’s impression of her brother and giggled so much he had to wipe a tear from his cheek. 

“You flatter me, young miss. If I still had my lute, I’d give you your own personal concert.” Behind him Jasio burred and sauntered over, nuzzling against one of his folded wings. “Hah, oh yes. As long as you don’t mind sharing front row with my herd. They’re my most _loyal_ fans.” 

She dropped his tail to pet Jasio’s snout and chirped endearments to the deer. 

It was a wonder how the girl had made it this far out in the woods alone. Beyond the borders of his clearing, the place was teeming with predators. Jaskier’s herd had immunity from the wolves as he’d convinced the nearby packs that they weren’t worth the trouble, and his deer knew to move when Jaskier’s birdy lookouts alerted them of incoming bear. This little girl, however, was not under his protection, and had somehow reached him unharmed. Jaskier didn’t feel like testing fate’s generosity tonight though, and thus decided he’d escort her back himself. He let her explore his clearing and meet the rest of the herd before telling her this, and, to his surprise, she agreed, telling him very matter-of-factly that she’d have plenty of time later to explore the woods with him. Jaskier grabbed his precious blue cloth and stuffed it in his satchel before he set off for town with the girl.

The girl—who told him her name was Lia, like the purple flower, Liatris— sat atop his shoulders the whole way and told him many interesting stories. Stories that focused on engaging subjects like _‘the weird thing her dog found in the bushes the other day’_ , and _‘the mouse she’d named Fenik that lives under her family’s floorboards’_. It was truly a pleasure to listen to Lia ramble, and she was very well-spoken for a child her age. For all her youthful innocence, the girl was, nonetheless, smart as a whip. Which is why he hoped she’d understand what he was about to tell her.

They’d finally reached the forest’s edge, so Jaskier set her down on the ground and cleared his throat.

“Lia, can you promise me something?” 

She nodded, a look of determination crossing her face.

“I wish to… one day join you all out there. In the _real_ world. It is important that you tell no one of my face’s likeness. Can you do that for me? Keep this,” he gestured to his face, “ _super_ , super secret?” 

Lia laughed. “Is that all? Of course I can, that's _easy_. I thought you’d ask for my undying allegiance as your loyal servant or something. Secret keeping’s much simpler.” 

Jaskier chuckled and thanked Lia, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. He then pulled the blue cloth from his satchel and proceeded to tie the ribbons at its corners around his horns. When he was done, the cloth hung neatly over his face, perfectly shielding his visage with the pretty, gold design he’d sewn; a far cry from the clumsy sash disguise he’d used previously. 

He summoned a ball of soft light to trail after them, and walked in a crouch to seem less imposing. They traveled out of the forest like this, Lia holding one of his big, clawed hands. 

She led him to her house, which was closer than Jaskier had expected, right on the edge of town. Thankfully, the rest of the village seemed asleep, so he doubted anyone else would see them. But he still felt nervous as he rapped a knuckle on Lia’s front door. 

He stepped back as the front door creaked open to reveal a weary mother’s face.

“Mama, I’m back! I met Eraim’s friend!” Lia exclaimed as she ran up the steps and jumped into her mother’s arms. Her mother buried her face into her daughter’s messy hair and tearfully scolded her for running off and getting herself lost again. Behind them, her husband stood and gawked at Jaskier in shock. He stuttered something sounding like _‘by the gods’_ and tapped on his wife’s shoulder, who looked up and quickly matched his startled expression. Jaskier, not wanting to spook them further, merely bowed, lifting his hands in a peaceful gesture. 

After a few moments of silence, the husband spoke up, stuttering out a small _‘thank you’_. 

Lia tugged on her father's pants and asked if she could have a snack before bed. He absently nodded _‘yes’_ and she clapped happily. Lia waved goodbye to Jaskier before scurrying around her parents and back inside. 

“Your daughter has a bright mind,” Jaskier said, laughing warmly, “and a beautiful name.” 

He tapped a hoof purposefully to the ground, and backed away as clusters of purple Liatris flowers bloomed all around the borders of their house. Both parents were smiling now; wide, disbelieving ones. Lia’s father was moved to tears as his wife reached out to carefully touch a flower, a confirmation of its realness. 

Satisfied with the interaction, Jaskier crouched low and lifted off the ground with a great beat of his wings. As he climbed upwards in the sky, he heard Lia’s mother call after him, saying something about being forever in his debt. Catching a strong air current, he soared back to his clearing, a song in his throat and warmth in his heart. 

Here, in Lubihtorrach, no one ran from him or attacked him on sight. 

Here, in Lubihtorrach, he’d been welcomed. 

Here, in Lubihtorrach, he could _stay_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New art to be posted soon to my [Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) ❤️  
> Edit:  
> [Here's the tumblr post for his outfit design](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/624559560894578688/it-wasnt-like-he-was-preparing-to-perform-in)


	11. Alters

Emptiness… familiarity…. Jaskier wasn’t sure where he was but it felt like he was… floating. Swimming, somehow, yet without the need of movement. Bodiless. He could not feel himself— not his  _ physical self _ , at least. His mind—his  _ consciousness  _ floated in a vast. Familiar.  _ Nothing _ . 

He willed himself float somewhere, anywhere else, anywhere besides the terrible nothingness and… felt….  _ something _ . 

It blossomed against his eyes, which were not eyes in any real way, but still he perceived the light before him. The light before him was  _ something _ , and because it was the only something in his nothing, he pursued it. He fell closer and closer to the warbling something, nearer and nearer until it consumed more of his perception than the nothing. 

Closer and closer, hotter and hotter until he _ burned  _ without feeling. 

Still he continued on until he touched it. 

Upon contact he felt the something warp  _ him _ , bend  _ him _ , manifest him into  _ reality _ ; a body which he used to press into the light.

His face surfaced through to the other side and there he saw—with his eyes that were actually eyes— a fragmented scene of _ unmaking _ . 

They appeared to Jaskier like visions under **m** urky water, rippling, writhing, muddy, unclear. An elegant, **o** pulent room, a wealthy place. A man in **t** ailored robes and physician’s mask. A babe, **her** head held against her father’s chest, small hands gripping fabric, small tail curled in fear. A knife at the infant’s back. The robed man cuts into the offered limb and all is _red_ and _screaming_ and Jaskier’s face is burning in the heat and fear, and this time he _feels it_ , and so he _SCREAMS_ with her. 

He  _ SCREAMS _ and _ SCREAMS _ and  _ SCREAMS _ , he screams until his cries are all he is, and all he knows, and  **_HE SCREAMS_ ** ...

Until he doesn't, and there is silence and he is back in the nothing;  _ safe  _ in the nothing. 

And he floats.

And he simply wishes to float, and hopes that floating is all he is now.

But it’s not— because  _ of course _ it’s not— for now, suddenly,  _ he hears _ . He hears, and has no choice but to listen, so he does. 

He listens to them…. singing. 

_ ‘Cavernous, wide, _

_ A darkness—creeping, crawling—lies inside.  _

_ On water, reed,  _

_ A small and suffocating seed.  _

_ Lineage, lost,  _

_ A cruel expense by secret’s cost.  _

_ Dreaming, sleeps, _

_ A relic in her womb, she keeps.  _

_ Awaken, son, _

_ Your fire’s lit, it has begun. _

_ Howling, sing,  _

_ Return to us at last, on wing.’ _

——

Jaskier woke that morning with sweat at his brow and a thrumming in his chest. It’s how he wakes whenever he has that dream. Or nightmare, more like? It terrified him each time, but he’d gotten used to that somehow. The recovery from them, gripping the furs below him until he felt grounded enough to move over to his water basin and splash himself awake. That’s just how it was. That was the routine. 

Not to say it happened constantly. He dreamed of other things besides the weird song-filled void. He dreamed of Lubihtorrach and it’s smiling denizens, dreamed of Sídhe-Sifra—of Melina’s company and Muralis’ stories— and of Geralt. For as much as he’d like to forget the heartache of the mountain, of _ twenty years _ of unrequited love, he could not. 

He tried his best to make peace with that, too. Accepting that the memories he had of the White Wolf were the _ last _ ones… as he was sure he’d never get the chance to make any more with the man. 

It was fine. 

Or at least, it would be. Recovery took time; he knew this. 

For the most part, he was happy.

Truly, a large part of him was content here. Content and safe, a blessing he never thought he’d have again. Changed as his life was, it felt natural, and with every passing day his body felt less and less foreign to him. _Almost as if he were meant to have been born in it._ Each morning after washing, he’d stand in front of the old, cracking mirror—that’d been in Buidhe’s old shack when he found it—comb his ever-lengthening hair out with his fingers, and look at himself. _Really_ look at himself. Jaskier noticed he’d stopped cringing at his reflection at some point, but he can’t remember when; the transition happened gradually, without his notice. 

Now when he looked in the mirror he saw… beauty, where he hadn’t before. The curve of his horns was, in a way, graceful, and he took to decorating them with trinkets—gifts of golden hoops and thread from townsfolk—on days when he really felt good about himself. 

Jaskier’s wings were dappled with the most vexingly gorgeous patterns he’d ever seen in bird wings. It took one of his many feathered friends complimenting him on them for him to notice, but now that he knew, he paid them  _ very _ close attention; grooming and preening throughout the day when he could. Jaskier liked to admire them most after a nice, long preening; when his gently oil-coated feathers glinted under the summer sun. 

His tail he found more useful than pretty, and its incredible dexterity was honestly quite  _ fun _ . He discovered his tail was long enough to hang from, and once nearly spent a whole afternoon upside down in a tree, giggling and petting Jasio from above; a strange and confusing event for the rest of the herd. 

Creepy, persistent dreams aside, he was doing alright. More than alright, for he was learning to  _ love himself _ again, and—considering what he’d been through— wasn’t that an amazing feat? 

——

“You know the village folk think you’re a god, right?” 

Jaskier chuckled and scratched under Jasio’s chin as he fed him another bite of the juicy apple Lia had brought them. 

“Is that so?” Jaskier hummed.

“Mhm!  _ I _ know you’re not,” Lia said, wobbling as she tried to balance on Jaskier’s favorite sitting log, “Think you’d make a good one though, you’re already far nicer than all the gods I’ve ever met!” 

Jaskier threw his head back and laughed at the girl’s words. 

“And just how many gods have you met, my lady?” 

“ _ Hmm _ ,” Lia paused her balancing act to think the question over. “None, I suppose. But father makes us give thanks to Melitele each night before bed, so that’s technically talking to a goddess,  _ right _ ? Either way, I still like you best.” 

“I’m honored, my dear,” Jaskier smiled as the girl went back to playing. He took a bite of the apple, himself, before handing over the rest for Jasio to finish. 

Liatris had come back to visit him many times after first getting lost. Like he’d first observed, she was very smart. Lia had memorized the path they’d taken through the woods back to her house, and all without marker or trail in sight. When he asked how she’d managed it, she’d told him that she remembered certain trees and boulders from their walk because she remembered what story she’d told him when they’d passed them, and that made them ‘ _ a snap _ ’ to find again. Jaskier… still didn’t really understand what that meant, but after the second time she returned to him, he knew he had to do  _ something  _ to protect the girl.

Keen as she was, she was still very little, and he’d never forgive himself if she got hurt on her way to visit him. So he fashioned a protective pendant for her; made from braided scrap thread, the thistles from liatris flowers, buds of yarrow and foxglove, and a small stone of black tourmaline that he secured in the center of the braid. Once around her neck, he kissed the little gem and felt a bloom of magic surround the young girl, who smiled and kissed the tip of his nose as thanks. 

He no longer fretted over her safety as she traveled through the brush alone. Jaskier knew the magic he used was strong, he could  _ feel it _ . Quietly literally too, as he could now sense her and his magic whenever she drew near, and, as such, her visits were well anticipated. 

He loved to listen to the girl talk, and, on top of that, Liatris was a fountain of news regarding the happenings of Lubih. 

“You wanna know what they’re calling ya?” Lia said suddenly, breaking Jaskier’s train of thought.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, pretending to seriously think of an answer, “let me guess _ ssss _ — ‘The Handsome One’?”

Liatris laughed, all bubbly and bright. 

“No _ ooo _ silly, guess again!”

“Huh, alright, okay, how aboutt _ tttt _ —ah! Are they calling me ‘ _ The Very, Very Handsome One _ ’?” 

“ _ Oh shush! _ Fine, I’ll just tell you.” 

Jaskier opened up a wing to drape affectionately over her as she plopped down next to him and Jasio on the grassy ground. 

“They’re calling you…  _ Samhradh-Arinn _ ,” She said the name with a cheesy air of mystery, as if she were telling a group of kids a fairytale, and had just gotten to the part where she revealed the name of the cryptic old hermit-mage who lived in the forest.  _ Well _ . Jaskier wasn’t a cryptic old hermit-mage, but he  _ did _ live in the forest where he performed weird magicks  _ so _ … close enough. 

“Samhradh-Arinn,” He repeated, feeling the name out on his tongue. “A bit long winded isn’t it?”

“I quite like it! ‘ _ Summer _ ’ and ‘ _ Forest Deer _ ’. Accurate and lovely to say. Proper godly name, if you ask me.” 

“And I could think of no one better to ask, either. I trust your opinion, oh wise lady Liatris,” Jaskier ruffled her hair and grinned at the resulting giggling. 

“So!  _ Oh great Samhradh-Arinn _ ,” Liatris theatrically bowed to him from her seated position. “May I ask… what’s your  _ real  _ name?” 

Jaskier bit his lip and hummed thoughtfully. 

Telling her his name could risk the anonymity he so desired to one day have; the clear separation from the  _ beast _ and the  _ bard _ . But… he  _ trusted  _ her. The little girl had easily won his heart, and in such a short time, to boot. Could he really deny her his name? 

He mulled the question over for a bit and found that,  _ no _ ; he could not deny her such a simple formality. Besides, she’d already seen his face a dozen times, what harm could this possibly do him? 

“Jaskier.” He said, simply.

“ _ Oh!! _ ” Lia exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “Like the White Wolf’s bard! Is that you? It _ is _ , isn’t it!” 

Huh. Ok. That was… unexpected. 

Jaskier sputtered, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. How in Melitele’s graces had Lia heard of him? All the way out in a forgotten village in the Kestral Mountains? Thankfully, she picked up on his confusion and explained. 

In her own way.

She hopped up and, to Jaskier’s surprise, sweetly sang a bit of ‘ _ Toss a Coin _ ’. When she finished her performance, he clapped; still dumbfounded, but impressed. Then Lia told him of the bard that came and sang it once, and credited him— _ Jaskier, The White Wolf’s Fearless Bard _ —before promptly departing in a huff after realizing the town tavern was too poor to throw  _ him _ any coin. 

Jaskier laughed at that. He’d known he’d gotten quite famous, but… well it was one thing to know _ it _ , but to hear it from a child living out in the middle of nowhere? To hear them sing your praises, well. That was… that was something. 

Jaskier asked Lia to keep his name a secret as well, told her he wished to bard again one day. She easily agreed and promised him she would. He was a friend, she explained, and besides, her parents ‘ _ kinda worship him _ ’. Best not to ‘ _ burst their bubble _ ’. Then Lia asked another question. One that was… harder to answer. 

“Why do you look like that?” 

Jaskier frowned and toyed with a lock of his hair. ‘ _ No reason not to tell her _ ,’ he thought. 

And so he did.

“Being the White Wolf’s Bard it uh… it came with.  _ Occupational hazards _ . Usually the job entailed dodging monsters and writing down the tales of…  _ heroics _ … Geralt did,” he felt a distaste for the word in his mouth now. ‘ _ Heroics _ ’. Had he ever really known it’s meaning. Jaskier cleared his throat and continued, “In his absence, one fateful day, I was whisked away and turned into a Fae—  _ hey that rhymes _ , doesn't it? 

Lia nodded. “New song, perhaps?” 

“Maybe… Well, anyways. Uh… magic. It was the doing of  _ old  _ magic. That’s the long and short of it. Made me,” Jaskier gestured to himself and shrugged, “... _ This _ .” 

“And… are you happy? As you are now, I mean?” She asked, placing her tiny hand in his, petting his softly padded palm. “Happy like this?” 

He smiled sadly at her before lowering his head to look down at her little hand. 

“I am…  _ beginning _ to find peace in it. I shan’t rosey the truth for you, I was afraid at first. I was so very,  _ very _ afraid.” 

Liatris shuffled closer and hugged his arm to comfort him, melting his heart instantly. 

“It’s not that bad. Besides, I think I managed to retain some of my good looks,” he laughed.

“ _ Some? _ ” She pressed her face against his arm and giggled into it. Jaskier pouted and asked her what she found so funny, to which Lia replied, “Nothing! I just think you’re being very silly, Mr. Jaskier. Truthfully, you’re  _ mighty  _ pretty... but,” Liatris grinned a mischievous little grin, “You could be even _ prettier! _ Let me at your hair, Mr. Jaskier. Please, please, please _ eee _ — you won’t regret it!” 

Jaskier made an amused trilling sound and nodded. 

“My messy locks are all yours. Let me just make this easier for you, small one.” 

Jaskier re-tucked his wing and scooted over to his sitting log, where he draped himself over it, chest pressed against the bark, and patted the place between his wings. Lia giggled as she jumped onto his back, and laughed harder still at the funny wheezing,  _ ‘OoF _ ’ noise Jaskier made upon impact. 

He lazily splayed his wings and stretched out his legs as she got to work. It was nice; he felt like a pampered cat, laid limp in the sunlight. 

She braided his hair for a good while, and he hummed a new melody in the meantime. A cheerful little lullaby. 

“Lubih’s having midsummer festival soon,” Lia said, after a while, “ _ Oh!  _ You simply must grow us some of your miracle flowers for Midaëte,  _ please _ ?” 

“How could I say no? A flower who asks for flowers, it’s poetry.” 

Liatris ‘ _ whooped _ ’ in celebration and then fell silent for a couple beats for gasping, excitedly.

“Y’know what I just realized, Mr. Jaskier? We’re  _ both _ named after flowers. Isn’t that nice?”

Jaskier hummed in agreement.

“My mama calls me her little flower sometimes.” 

‘ _ Flower _ .’ The nickname echoed quietly in his head. In Melina’s voice, no less. 

_ Oh, how he missed his sister. _

Lia shuffled forward on his back, and then he felt her tiny hand at his cheek… wiping away his tears. 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Jaskier?” She whispered, worry in her small, child’s voice.

Jaskier sniffled and shook his head. 

“I’m quite alright, my kind lady. I’m… simply reminded of someone dear to me. My sister, she used to call me that, too.” 

Lia nodded sagely and slowly got back to braiding his hair. 

“I hope you see her again sometime. It sounds like you miss her.”

Jaskier thanked her softly.

And he did  _ not _ begin to cry, again. Not even when she placed a little daisy in his hair. 

——

Soon enough, Midaëte arrived, and with it brought a livelier celebration than Jaskier could’ve ever imagined in little Lubihtorrach. 

As promised, he filled the town with flowers. Calla lilies, sunflowers, molleyarrow, and, of course, waves of dandelion and liatris; little suns and blazing stars. Jaskier surprised himself with how easy the spell was. It should’ve been much harder than it was to call forth so many flowers, and yet, it felt as effortless as breathing. 

It was as if his well of power was as unending as the summer sky itself. Was this the effect of the summer solstice on him? Of Midaëte? Or was it perhaps the result of his people’s worship? Of the way they bowed and prayed to shrines they’d erected in the name of Samhradh-Arinn? 

And since when had he come to think of them as ‘ _ his people _ ’? 

Jaskier had many questions that day. However, he was in such a good mood that the prospect of leaving them unanswered didn’t perturb him in the least. 

As the festival simmered to an end that night, Jaskier sang them all to sleep from the skies above Lubihtorrach, with a beautiful,  _ divine  _ voice that carried further than it should’ve. 

The fruitful summer days after Midaëte came and went, and soon it was fall. Those days, too, soon passed, and then, there Jaskier was, facing the promise of winter yet again. The cold and the quiet. The sapping of his power. 

But he was ready to meet it this time. 

For this time, he faced it knowing what awaited him after the frost melted. And this time, he would not have to face it alone. 

Jaskier had the little town of  _ Lubih _ , and Lubih had _ him _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came a little later due to some nasty hayfever(?) that's been annoying me lately, sorry about that!   
> Please enjoy another [funny meme that my lovely friend made](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/624016327242301441/chaos-smith-continues-to-destroy-me-with-top) 😂


	12. Illumination

The winter swept across the Kestrel Mountains ruthlessly. Within a week of fall’s passing, the landscape had been covered in an icy sheet of white. However, whereas Jaskier’s last winter had been filled with cold dread, and suffocating doubt, this winter brought a soft, serene sense of calm, beautiful snow showers, and warm, cozy mornings in his homey shack. 

Jaskier currently found himself enjoying such a morning. It was very early, much earlier than he usually woke; still dark outside. His herd wouldn’t be ready for breakfast yet—he’d been melting patches of snow and summoning grass for them to feed on in the clearing, where it was safe for them—there was no need to go out now. He hummed and turned in his nest of many fluffy, soft pelts. The make-shift fireplace in the middle of the shack was sputtering sadly though, and he knew if he wanted to keep his little cocoon of warmth alive, he’d have to go over and stoke it. 

Grumbling, Jaskier wrapped his wings around himself and shuffled over to the fire to help it out. The one room shack wasn’t large enough for him to stand at full height without brushing the ceiling, so he often moved about the place in a crouch. He didn’t mind in the winter, as the position lent itself to huddling; perfect for trapping heat. Jaskier raised his hands over the fire and pulled at the flickering embers with his own energy, and soon the flames returned, licking the air with blazing tendrils of heat. He sighed and curled himself around it, feeling fuzzy and content. 

His mind drifted as he sat there, and he thought about the dream he’d woken from. It hadn’t been a nightmare or a confusing glimpse of void, but a vision of...

_ Hands. _ .. warm, loving… sturdy and calloused, strong and scarred but  _ gentle _ on him. Touching him as if he were precious and sacred and  _ worthy _ . Touching him like he loved him. And lips, soft and sweet, kissing him as if it were his mode of worship,  _ a blind devotion _ . Pressing chaste kisses to his skin like whispered wishes to the midnight stars; On his lips, his chin, his neck, his chest, his belly, his hip, his..  _ his _ —

Jaskier gasped, breathy and startled. He hadn’t thought of such things in his waking life since… since before any of this began. He’d been more preoccupied with staying alive, with protecting his herd, and watching over Lubihtorrach. But now, in the warmth of his little home; safe and alone, unseen… he felt an old familiar  _ need _ . A lowly seated, spreading warmth; an insistent, radiating desire. 

It’d been so long since he’d touched himself.

And he wasn’t sure he knew how to anymore. 

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten how to pleasure himself—no— but his anatomy had changed in  _ many ways  _ and… well. 

His dick was weird now.

First of all, it was rarely visible, only peeking out of his fur-hidden slit— a new and perplexing addition to his anatomy— when he needed to relieve himself. Other than that, he’d never really seen it—not in full. If he was honest with himself he was probably too uncomfortable with his body to investigate before. Oh, but  _ now _ ?

_ Now _ he was curious. 

Jaskier lifted a wing to look at the mirror to his side; lent idly against the rough, wooden wall, the orange firelight bouncing off its weathered surface. 

Hm. Now  _ that _ … was an idea.

The thought of watching himself, of teasing himself to arousal in front of his own reflection greatly excited him. Jaskier shuffled over to the mirror, grabbed one of his furs to seat himself on, and—with a steadying breath— slowly spread his legs. 

The anticipation, the waiting, the built up pressure of his untouched libido made him shiver at the mere sight of himself in such a position. 

Jaskier’s body had recovered from the previous winter. His frame had filled out, supple curves where sharp angles had once been, and defined muscles in places he’d never seen them before. Admiring himself as he did now, Jaskier realized he looked  _ good _ ; healthy and strong and genuinely quite stunning, and not ‘ _ despite _ ’ his horns and hooves and other monstrous traits, but  _ because _ of them… because they were a part of  _ him _ , and all of him looked  _ good _ . 

Jaskier’s eyes trailed further down. His lower half was thickly covered in fur, colored a warm chestnut, same as the hair on his head, that now flowed in long, messy curls and tickled at the backs of his wings. 

“Alright, _ okay _ , you got this, Jask. Just...,” he dipped a shaking hand into the fur over his crotch and parted it, revealing his softly blushing slit, “ _ Hah _ .. like that.” 

Jaskier bit his lip and shifted his weight forward a bit, to free the hand that had been supporting himself against the floor, so that it could join the other at his crotch. The position gave him a better view as well, and he made a soft, surprised sound as he ran a digit over the reddened opening. It…  _ pulsed _ , as he did so, and the heat in his belly stirred, clearly interested. So he did it again. And again  _ and again and _ —

“ _ Oh f-fuck _ ,” Jaskier gasped, voice high pitched and shuddering. He was so fucking  _ sensitive _ —so needy— if he’d known that just rubbing himself like this could bring him such pleasure, he’d have done this months ago. He rubbed over his slit with two fingers now, angling the strokes so that his claws were in no danger of scratching the tender skin there. His whole groin now flushed pink, his slit puffy and slick and...parting.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Jaskier breathed. 

He used two fingers to spread the puffy folds and marveled at the sight of his dick eagerly rising out of him. It was a dark, velvety pink, blushed ruddy red at the head, which dripped with a golden, glowing bead of precome. Jaskier couldn’t contain a hiccuping giggle at that.  _ Glowing  _ come? _ Really?? _ A strange surprise, but not entirely unwelcome. It was… sort of pretty. 

He gripped himself firmly and smeared the glistening fluid down his length, breath hitching as the pads of his hands rubbed over the ridges of his cock. Was he bigger than he used to be? Jaskier squeezed, pulling a moan from his parted lips. He was certainly  _ thicker _ , his shaft filling his fist as he worked himself. 

He moved his hand faster now, hips stuttering up to meet his strokes with heated urgency. His hand was covered in the glowing slick that leaked from the tip of his cock. The sounds of him pleasuring himself—wet slapping and lewd, heady moans— filled the small shack. Jaskier couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard himself sound so enthusiastic, so gloriously obscene. The noises he made were absolutely filthy; shamelessly sinful and  _ gorgeous _ . Jaskier’s tail curled, and his wings twitched as he twisted his hand up in a new angle, dragging the rough of his palm against the perky ridges along his length in the most delicious way. He repeated the motion, over and over  _ and over _ until his dick itself began to pulse a soft, tantalizing golden light. 

He was close,  _ so close _ , but not close enough—he needed something more and he needed it now. Jaskier whined in frustration, hips thrusting up erratically. He briefly thought of how sensitive his closed slit had been and—with a desperate mewl— he slid his other hand over himself and dipped a finger between his cock and the wet space it’d risen from and—

“ _ A-ah  _ **_fuCK_ ** _ — _ **_OH_ ** _!! _ ” 

Jaskier’s back hit the furs beneath him as he keened, wings spastically beating at the air, feeding the flames as he cried and shook. His orgasm hit him in devastatingly ruthless waves, ripping wrecked wails and animalistic _ growls _ from his throat. 

The waves of pleasure slowly petered out, leaving him in a delightfully fuzzy daze. Jaskier’s eyes— which he hadn’t remembered closing— fluttered open and he whimpered at the sight of himself. 

His reflection was a thing to behold, the very definition of  _ debauched _ : his hair tossed over half his face, his chest heaving and glistening in exertion, and his stomach glowing with the splattered stripes of his seed. 

“Sweet Melitele that’s— _ fuck _ — that’s  _ hot _ ,”Jaskier rumbled, voice rough and low.

He watched in wonder as his dick slowly retreated back into its sheath, and shuddered at the momentary overstimulation it elicited. 

Curious, Jaskier licked at the sticky spend on his hand and hummed at the pleasant taste. Like salt and honey; smokey and rich.  _ Decadent. _

“Mmm,” Jaskier sleepily murmured, “That went well.” 

He huffed in amusement and languidly stretched out, sated and now  _ truly _ content. The sun was still quietly slumbering under the horizon, so Jaskier joined him, letting himself drift back to sleep with the lingering thought that he must do this again, and soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update because I spent three days making [Jaskier's Outfit Reference Sheet](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/624559560894578688/it-wasnt-like-he-was-preparing-to-perform-in) , because... because I really like character design and I have little to no impulse control 😂   
> I edited and embeded the art at the end of Chapter 10: Devotees, so if you don't have a Tumblr, you can view it here too, by either clicking back to chapter 10 or following [This Link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24847729/chapters/61267249)  
> It's the second character sheet I've made, ( [This was the first one](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/623104536261885952/he-hated-how-familiar-he-was-with-the-body-he-now?is_highlighted_post=1) ) and I have one more planned. The last one is gonna be quite spicy, so I'll be posting that one to my Twitter when the time comes.   
> I hope y'all like it, I had a lot of fun with it! ❤️


	13. Contracts

It was amazing how fast time passed while on your own. It felt Like winter had just ended, that spring had just barely begun, but in reality, it was mere weeks away from midsummer; the sun blazing hot and unrelenting. 

This was the first time that Geralt had set out alone on the path again since finding Ciri, the child bound to him through destiny. After their initial reunion, he’d taken her back to Kaer Morhen, kept her safe there awhile and prepared the girl for her future—surely one filled with never ending trials and hardship— via Witcher training. The child had elder blood, and even without the traditional mutations, she soon became a force to be reckoned with. The world around them was in war, but they had their own path. So for years they trained, with book and sword, both in Kaer Morhen and out on the path. 

It’d been years— nine years since last winter’s end. Nine years of watching his daughter—blood relation or no, he’d grown to love her as his very own—transform into a strong and fierce fighter, a capable, brilliant young woman, and a kinder soul than he ever was. Finding her and raising her was undoubtedly the greatest decision he’d ever made in his stupidly long life. As for the _worst_ decision… nine years, and he still hadn’t forgiven himself, never would. The loneliness that tore at him now stemmed from more than just missing Cirilla. But those thoughts were hard to face, and so he buried them. Or tried to anyways. It’d been so much easier to distract himself from his guilt with Ciri by his side, but she was back in Kaer Morhen now, training with Yennefer. 

After their last encounter, Geralt hadn’t expected to see her again. But destiny—like always— had a way of turning his expectations on their head. So there Yennefer was, back in his life. Yet again a key player, though in a _completely_ different way. Cirilla had changed things. Changed everything really, but most noticeably so in their dynamic. At first, it’d been rocky. When Yennefer had intercepted them one day in a seedy little tavern just off of Cretegor, their meeting had been tumultuous, to put it _lightly_. Old wounds that had dulled, but had never closed were reopened, and bled out in the most spectacular fashion. In a strange way though, it’d helped. Like re-breaking a bone to properly reset it. It finally gave them both a chance to heal. 

Ciri became the thing that kept them linked. As with him, Yennefer quickly grew attached to her and—before long— Ciri had a maternal figure in her life. She wasn’t constant; she still flitted in and out of their lives as she pleased, but she was there when they needed her. 

He hadn’t been sure what he’d wanted between them at first, and neither had she. They danced around each other for a while, _uncertain_ , not entirely convinced that the original spark between them still remained. As time would show, it had not. Any romantic feelings they’d harboured for one another had died on that mountain. Additionally, _other_ feelings he harboured had gotten in the way of the ones he had for her reforming. And justly so. They’d been a toxic mix in the first place; he only wished he’d realized that earlier. Maybe then things would be different. Maybe he wouldn't have lost the real love of his life, who he only fully realized his feelings for once it was _too late_. The one he’d been blind to. The one he’d taken for granted. The one he’d so cruelly pushed away. The one he’d left to an early grave. 

_The one he killed._

For surely, his dear friend had met some awful fate, the way he’d found his beloved lute abandoned and… 

_Nine years later_ and still ghoulish nightmares of Jaskier dying alone at the bottom of that wretched mountain plagued him. He envisioned countless horrific scenarios while at the mercy of sleep. Seen Jaskier suffer at the hands of all kinds of demons, monsters, humans, even his own vile, mutant hands. And not once did he wish them away, for this was his only recompense. He deserved it; deserved a fate a thousand times worse than what he subjected Jaskier to… but a fate like that didn’t exist, and so he settled for the torture of his own guilt. Without Ciri and the fierce love he had for her, he would’ve surely crumbled under the weight of his own self hatred. 

Those destructive feelings hid under the surface most days though. His new life had changed him for the better. Even with a myriad of demons, new and old, still clawing at his insides, he found ways to compartmentalize. Ways to keep the ghouls at bay, to focus on fatherhood, to give Ciri all off him, unconditionally. Their bond was so strong that it masked his self hate, kept it in a tidy box that only opened in his dreams, and when he drowned himself in White Gull and thought of _him_ . In his waking life, he’d softened. Having a child had made him putty, easily malleable by the tiny hands of his young daughter. He’d learned to speak more than five syllables at a time, learned to _communicate_ ; share and relate and comfort. 

Through her, he smiled. Through her, he laughed. With her, he was a better man. Without her? _He wasn’t sure_. This was the first time Yennefer had insisted on training with her past winter, keeping her from the path— their path. He was told it was important, but Yen divulged little more. He trusted Cirilla, and she’d agreed with her mother in the sentiment. Her power was far different from the kind Yennefer wielded, but it was magical nonetheless, and Yen was her best bet in learning to control it. 

So there he was, back chasing contract after contract. 

Alone. 

Well, _not entirely_ , he had Roach, afterall; his most loyal companion. She whinied, suddenly and flicked her tail, as if she’d read Geralt’s mind and wanted to reply ‘ _no duh_ ’. 

“Thanks, girl,” The Witcher patted her mane and gave her the slightest hint of a smile. Not that horses cared if you smiled or not, but it was good practice.

Traveling in such silence led his mind to wander far too much. He’d have to find a way to properly distract himself on the road for his sanity’s sake. There were only so many times one could read over the same _damn_ contract before starting to lose it. Still, at the thought he grumbled, and pulled out the contract again, flattening it out on his thigh as it’d gotten rather crumbled in Roach’s saddlebag. 

‘Contract: Deceptive Devil of Luibh 

To any man folk brave and strong enough, I have a matter of revenge in which I ask you to take up in my name. 

Many a season ago, my dear brother was slain in front of my very eyes by a creature so vicious and foul, I can only imagine it to be a devil. Great big horns, lethal claws, fangs as white and warning as a dead man’s bones, and eyes as blue as fire’s core. 

A disgusting, hairy, winged thing; I feel ashamed that I did not have the courage to wrangle the damned thing myself. Or even just share my story sooner. If I had, perhaps the poor town of Luibh wouldn’t have somehow been duped by it. I know not what lies it told them— what terrible magicks it used— to fool them into thinking of it as some kind of god. But it’s done just that. I’ve heard talk on the road of a creature, baring likeness to the same devil that murderously devoured my brother, somehow presiding over Luibhtorrach. 

This is wrong. It should not be. I want safety for the poor, gullible townsfolk of Luibh, yes. But to be completely honest with you, I mostly want my revenge. 

Bring me its head and I’ll pay you its weight in gold; my entire life savings is worth it, I have no doubt of it. 

— Marek’ 

The mad ramblings gave him little clue as to what the creature was, and meeting with the contractor had confused him further still. Marek claimed he and his brother saw the thing creep out of their village, a small little backwater dump near the river Braa where he’d found the contract posted to the town’s notice board. The man claimed he and his brother had followed the thing into the woods to scare it off, but his brother ‘ _bravely_ ’ attacked it as it seemed aggressive and ‘ _would’ve surely posed a greater threat to the town_ ’. The only helpful information he’d been able to glean from the guy was that the beast had practically doubled in size before killing his brother. 

_Odd._

Based on this and the man’s initial description of the monster’s physicality, Geralt could interpret _fuck all_ about the thing. None of his studies under Vesemir had taught him about anything that even came close to matching this thing’s description. He’d skimmed his own pocket bestiary a dozen times, and still. Nothing. 

Whatever it was, it’d be a challenge, and perhaps that was just what Geralt needed right now. Something to serve as a distraction. 

It’d be a mystery. Probably involve a lot of tracking, and a little detective work to find out why all of Luibh worshiped it. This wasn’t to say he was intent on actually fighting and killing it; that only happened if the thing was truly _guilty_ . The intrigue surrounding the ‘ _god_ ’ story, and the possible discovery of a new beast was enough to pique the Witcher’s interest. If he was lucky, the man was just crazy and the creature was just an odd thing that defended itself from a couple drunkards in the woods. Either way, it was a welcome change of pace from the normal drudgery of drowner and foglet contracts. 

The Kestrel mountains were steep, and the path leading up to the town he sought was choppy and rough, ground covered in dirt that now coated both roach and him in a layer of tawny dust. He assumed the rest of the terrain on their journey up would feature much of the same, but to his surprise, as he ascended, the mountain seemed to grow… _green_. At first it was just more grass along the path, but the scenery soon morphed around him as he went. Dense brush, berry bushes, all kinds of tree, wild mushrooms everywhere, and flowers blanketing whole plains in alarmingly vibrant colors. It looked as if a mage had dropped a petri dish blessed by Freya herself onto the plateau. 

By the time he reached the town sign labeled ‘ _Luibhtorrach_ ’, he felt as if he’d been teleported right through one of Ciri’s weird dimensional portals. It was… it was just really _fucking weird_ , and Geralt was usually _used_ _to_ weird, but this took the damn cake. 

Something fluttered behind the sign, and Geralt dismounted Roach to properly examine it. A banner; blue and with a strange golden-yellow insignia, not one he was familiar with. He grunted thoughtly, thumbing the edge of the fabric. 

“Pretty, ain’t it!”

Geralt turned to regard the trader that spoke to him. His pack was full to bursting, and he held a smoking pipe in one hand. 

“They’re gonna be celebrating Midaëte soon. Last year I heard the party was as lively and kicking as a hare in spring, I wouldn’t miss it if I were you, I certainly won’t,” the cheery man laughed. He was red on the face— happily blushed— and came much closer to Geralt than most village folk would normally dare, seemingly unafraid of the Witcher. 

Again. _Odd._

Geralt quizzically ‘ _hmmd_ ’ in response. 

“Ah, talkative, ain’tcha? No matter friend, they take all sorts up in Luibh. The elf sure surprised me, but not a bad lad, not at all. Dries the best blow I’ve ever had in me life, and gave me a run for me money in a round of gwent, I swear it. Tell the innkeeper ya met with Rubik on his way outta town and she’ll set ya up nicely,” the rambling man took a drag from his pipe and puffed a mighty cloud of thick smoke into the air between them. “Well, so long, Witcher. Try some Yellow Sunder while in town, ay? Won’t regret it,” the trader said with a wave, continuing back on the trail. 

“Hm. So long,” Geralt said, turning his attention back to the banner gently billowing above him in the warm summer breeze. 

Weirdly friendly trader, weirdly lush plateau, weirdly popular pipe weed, weirdly religious trading town, weirdly _weird_ mystery creature.

_Yeah_. This was gonna be a strange one. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! It's Geralt, finally! 😂  
> I think my love for The Witcher 3 game is pretty blatantly on display in this chapter. Because I am a soft sap, here are some of my favorite game interactions (Mild spoilers for the game, mostly side quests):  
> [Helping Trollololo Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iqo2_knIiAk)  
> [The Crimson Avenger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YHTWPnx5j4)  
> [The Imp Pun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPtL3PXgz5U)  
> [Saving a Little Girl and Giving Piggyback Rides](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1n9TMIJC9c)  
> [Training Ciri](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QN8gANz8Te4)  
> [Werewolf Puns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEd0yxi89fE)  
> [Interacting with Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuzii16yyKs)  
> Later today, I will be posting a little poll on [my twitter](https://twitter.com/LoxVol) about a possible project surrounding this fic. I'll edit the link in later when it's up 👍  
> Edit:  
> Made the poll! If you have a twitter you can find the poll [here](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1287881609161535494) , If you have a Tumblr and not a twitter, you can comment your response [here instead](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/624836645537071104/started-a-poll-on-my-twitter-about-a-possible) ❤️  
> Thank you! Let me know what you think! ✨


	14. Redolent

Walking through Luibhtorrach put Geralt ill at ease. The town was just so oddly  _ happy _ , it seemed as if a festival were already taking place. Shop fronts were busy with gossiping travelers, music could be heard from the open doors of the tavern, and children ran around playing in the square. 

Roach burred and shook her head, mane swatting Geralt in the face. 

“I know. It’s weird,” Geralt whispered to her, stroking her mane as he led her by the reins on foot. 

“Hello! I’m Abel!” 

Geralt looked down at the little hand tugging at the bottom of his armor, then to the small owner of said hand: a rosy cheeked little boy. Oh good. A child. Geralt was great with Ciri, but she’d already been around twelve years of age when he’d found her. This one was… four? Five maybe? 

“Uh. Hello, Abel,” the Witcher replied with an unsure smile. 

“Now you’re supposed to say your name,” Abel whispered encouragingly, apparently under the impression Geralt had forgotten the courtesy. That actually made Geralt laugh. The kid was either very funny or very sweet. Also, he might be six, actually? Discerning the ages of young children was not a forte of Geralt’s. 

“And I’m Geralt,” he said, squatting down to shake the young boy’s hand. 

Abel’s eyes lit up and he shook Geralt’s hand with all the strength he could muster. 

“Nice to meet’cha, Mr. Geralt,” Abel beamed and pointed up at him, “I wanted to ask you something! Where’d you get your cool scar?” 

“Hmm, this one?” Geralt touched the left side of his face where a long scar cut a line over his eye and down to his cheek. “Gift from a big ugly chicken called a cockatrice.” 

Abel gasped, “Is that a  _ monster _ ?” 

Geralt nodded ‘ _ yes _ ’. The boy, not completely satisfied with a mere nod, opened his mouth to ask more questions, when someone called for him from a window of the nearby inn. 

“Ah, I got to go, Mr. Geralt. Please come stay at my mom’s inn though. We don’t have any cool men with scars staying with us yet, and I think we really should,” Abel explained before waving ‘ _ goodbye _ ’ and running off to the inn. 

Roach nudged his head with her snout, as if to say ‘ _ An inn with a stable and water and hay? Let’s go now _ ’. The mare could be very persuasive, so the Witcher led her over to the stables and got her set up there. He tipped the stable-hand to ensure her good care. The young man tending the horses smiled at the gesture, and wished Geralt a good stay in town. 

The Witcher nodded and politely waved before heading to the inn. 

The people here were nice for some reason and it was throwing him off guard. He wasn’t sure whether he should be pleasantly surprised or  _ suspicious _ . 

The innkeeper was a short, stout woman with kind eyes, and beautiful golden hair that she wore in a messy bun. Instead of drawing back at Geralt’s presence like most did, she actually... came closer? She left her post behind the counter and walked around it to come shake Geralt’s hand. He hadn’t even offered it, she’d just taken it up and started shaking. 

Alright. Weird interaction number three. He guessed he’d better start a list to keep track.

“I’m Danika! Very nice to meet you—?” Her voice pitched up at the end, clearly asking for his name. 

“I’m Geralt of Rivia,  _ uh _ , Witcher,” he replied, no longer entirely sure that she could tell. Maybe none of them knew, besides the trader. Why else would they treat him so _ kindly _ ? 

“Ah, we heard tale of you once from a nice bard!”

_ Oh _ . 

“... Did he go by Jaskier? Only a little shorter than me, brown hair, light blue eyes?” The Witcher asked, secretly hoping.

“Afraid not, hun. But he did credit the song as master Jaskier’s.” 

Geralt grunted and tried not to look dejected. However, Danika was apparently  _ very _ observant, and tutted, shaking her head.

“Now, that won’t do— I won’t have a customer unhappy. Come, have a seat and a bite to eat, hm? On me,” she offered—or, well her words came off more as an order than an offer, leaving him no wiggle room to deny her generosity. 

So he sat. After a while she brought him out a warm meal, a cup of mead, and— surprising him again— a crumbly pastry of some kind. The food smelled amazing, and he greatfuly dug in as she went to tend other customers. He ate the pastry last and tried not to hum audibly over how amazing it tasted. The Witcher hadn’t had anything sweet in what felt like  _ ages _ . 

Danika returned and sat down in a stool next to him at the counter.

“Appreciating the apple crumble? My son’s idea for today’s sweet, they’re his favorite,” she supplied, leaning her elbows on the counter.

“ _ Hmm _ . Yes, thank you,” he took a sip from his mead before asking her about the Alderman. Danika shared that the closest thing they had to an Alderman was an old man named Mr. Buidhe, who lived a couple houses to the right of her inn. The Witcher thought it best to use as much of the daylight as he could, and decided to head there right away. Before he left the inn, he paid her for Roach’s keeping and tried his best to pay her for the food. She’d refused any coin in exchange for the meal though, repeating that it was on the house, and adding that the inn was doing very well lately, so she could ‘ _ spare a meal or two for good company _ ’. 

He made his way over to the Almost-Alderman’s house, and found Mr. Buidhe sitting outside in a wicker chair, carving something. 

“I’m here about the—” he almost said ‘ _ contract _ ’ before remembering Luibhtorrach’s Alderman hadn’t been the one to post it. He cleared his throat and tried again, “... _ rumor _ . Word is you folk have a bit of a beastly god here.” 

Mr. Buidhe laughed but did not look up from his task. 

“Aye, the whole village certainly thinks so,” the old man said, clearly amused.

Interesting.

“So you don’t worship this thing with the rest of them? Don’t consider it a god?” 

“ _ No _ , of course not. Don’t be silly, Witcher,” Mr. Buidhe chuckled and wiped some wood shavings off his pant leg. It was strange how the man had been able to discern his profession without even properly looking at him. 

“You say that like you know something about it.” Geralt said, leaning against a pillar on Buidhe’s porch. 

“Because I do. I know what ‘ _ Samhradh-Arinn _ ’ is.” 

“Hm,” Geralt cocked his head at the old man. He seemed very confident in his statement. Maybe he did have useful information. “Alright, I’ll bite. What is it?” 

The old man finally stopped carving and looked up, meeting Geralt’s gaze with an air of intent.

“He’s my friend.” 

...Definitely weird interaction number four. 

——

Geralt ended up talking with Mr. Buidhe for a good while; until about an hour after noon’s passing. 

Mr. Buidhe was an unusual character. He seemed to know more than he was letting on, but Geralt only knew this because he was accustomed to talking to people who tended to withhold information. If he wasn’t so attuned to such things, he might not have noticed. As it was though, the old man still shared plenty. 

He was told of their first meeting, by the man’s old shack. Of the help the creature had given him with the garden in honor of his wife, and how the thing— or rather— his ‘ _ friend _ ’ kept his face covered during each of their interactions. Mr. Buidhe refused to share any details of how his friend looked, or what—if any— magic they could perform. Everything that the old man told him painted a picture of a benevolent, human-like being; far from the hideous monster that the angry Marek described. 

Near the end of the conversation, the Witcher asked if Mr. Buidhe thought his friend could be capable of such aggression as was detailed in the contract he’d taken up, which he then handed to the other man to read. Mr. Buidhe had brought the paper close to his face and squinted at it for a while, expression focused, but otherwise indiscernible. When he was finished reading, he’d handed the paper back, and simply continued his carving. Geralt waited a moment before asking him what he thought, to which Buidhe replied:

“We all have the capacity to respond with violence when we feel threatened.” 

Then he calmly followed up with:

“And sometimes when we feel our  _ friends _ are threatened.” 

Geralt left the conversation with a great respect for the brave old man, who seemed somehow very confident in his ability to defend his  _ ‘friend’ _ . The Witcher had put him at ease, saying he wouldn’t harm anyone who’d merely been defending themselves—which was what Buidhe staunchly believed had happened— and promised he’d send his regards if he did meet this ‘ _ Samhradh-Arinn _ ’. 

The whole thing was still  _ odd _ . There was a possibility that the entire town—including Buidhe— was under some kind of  _ thrall _ , and that the creature was indeed actively endangering them. But that remained to be seen. 

While at Mr. Buidhe’s, Geralt had caught an old scent hanging around the window sill. It was far from fresh, so the Witcher had a hard time deciphering the oddly familiar nuances of the smell, but he was sure it had to belong to the old man’s mysterious friend. It smelled inhuman, and carried the  _ strangest _ undercurrent of magic that Geralt had ever scented. 

The scent trail directed him to the forest just east of town, so there he went, opting to leave Roach at the stables as the woods were particularly dense. As he’d stepped through the tree line, he’d seen what looked to be a young girl watching him at the edge of town. As soon as he noticed her, she appeared to delight and jump up and down. 

Goddamit, even the children were weird here.

She squealed and waved before ducking into a nearby house, most likely her own. In any other situation, Geralt might’ve investigated. Gone over to ask the child if she’d been trying to get his attention for some reason. In this town though? No, he had  _ no _ interest in seeing what that was about, so he moved a branch out of his way and continued through the woods. 

The Witcher had been navigating through the thick foliage for a good while. The plant life here was as strange— if not stranger— than the kind he’d seen in town. The biodiversity had gone  _ utterly _ haywire. Plants from completely different ecosystems grew alongside each other, thriving under conditions that—under normal circumstances— should’ve had them either wilting or dead.

_ It made absolutely zero sense _ .

No creature of the earth could so dramatically alter the world around them like this. At least not to his knowledge. 

Geralt was busy mentally checking off the list of potions he had on him— wondering if any would help if he encountered Buidhe’s friend— when he suddenly picked up on two very startling things. First, he could hear something that sounded vaguely like music; faint but melodic and airy. Secondly, the scent he’d been tracking got stronger, more recent and—

Geralt  _ gasped _ , feeling as if he’d been struck right in the chest with a harpy’s talons. 

He hadn’t realized why the scent was so familiar before, but  _ now _ — now he knew why, and it made his head  _ reel _ . 

Making far too much noise, he ran in a dead bolt through the trees, leaping over upturned logs and boulders, shoving branches out of his way, his veins full of  _ ICE _ and  _ FIRE _ . 

A reasonable Witcher should never give away his position without first knowing what he was up against, but Geralt was  _ beyond _ reason now.

_ How _ ?? How could this be? The Jaskier in his dreams lay at the base of the cursed mountain in a pool of his own blood; dead still, silent— smelling of nothing but decay and guilt. But it was there, it was  _ him _ — it had to be! 

_ Jasmine _ , sharp and airy. 

_ Mulled wine _ , heavily spiced with juniper. 

_ Hickory _ , smokey and honey sweet. 

It was all. Jaskier. 

**_“JASKIER!”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to them meeting now, I'm so excited!!! 😄   
> I want to say thank you for the overwhelmingly positive response to my [Possible Project for this fic](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/624836645537071104/started-a-poll-on-my-twitter-about-a-possible) . I'm currently researching on ways to make it happen. [The poll](https://twitter.com/loxvol/status/1287881609161535494?s=21) is still up and I'll post another one soon for further feedback 👍  
> The artwork you see at the end of this chapter is a piece I commissioned from the wonderful [@mersephesie](https://mersephesie.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, also found on Twitter [@gayjaskier](https://twitter.com/gayjaskier?s=21) ! She's an absolutely wonderful artist to work with and I love this piece so incredibly much! Please go check her out ❤️  
> You can also find this art posted on [My Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/625288010979819520/im-beyond-excited-to-share-the-art-of-my) and on [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1289692667882872832) ! ✨


	15. Reparations

Jaskier hadn’t played an instrument other than the lute in a long,  _ long _ time. In Oxenfurt, he’d been trained to proficiency in at least two instruments from every musical category—idiophones, membranophones, chordophones, aerophones—but the bard had found everything he loved about music in the lute. 

He’d briefly mentioned his passion for music while chatting with Buidhe in Ada’s garden. The old man hadn’t seemed to take any sort of special interest in the topic at the time, which just added to the utter shock Jaskier experienced upon his next visit. It was nearly a week later when Buidhe gave him the gift he now held in his hands: a lovely little pan flute that Buidhe himself had carved. He’d explained that Ada, though never professionally, had played the pan flute. Looking at hers—for Mr.Buidhe couldn’t bear to part with Ada’s flute itself— he’d been able to figure out the design and carve one for him. 

Jaskier nearly wept.

Well, okay—not  _ nearly _ — he did. He cried like a baby. It was the sweetest, most thoughtful gift he’d received since Geralt got him the jewel encrusted dagger, which he still often wore on his hip, more out of sentiment than need. 

Jaskier hadn’t even particularly  _ liked _ learning wind instruments at the academy, but now felt incredibly grateful that he never slacked in his studies. 

To have an instrument— any instrument— back in his hands… why, he could just about faint from happiness. 

Thankfully, he hadn’t actually done so, but felt that sobbing and hugging Mr. Buidhe had been enough to show the man how appreciative he was of his gift. 

Currently, Jaskier was sat on the log outside his shack, watching the afternoon sun cast speckled spots of light, rays filtered by the trees, onto the porch and the little painted rocks that the children of Luibh had gifted him. The pan flute felt so solid and comforting in his hands that he thought he could very well just sit there with it and be completely content without even playing it. 

But he also really  _ really  _ wanted to play it.

He stared at it for a bit longer, thumbing the delicate engravings of flowers and vines on its sides, till he finally felt ready. Jaskier brought the flute slowly up to his lips. And blew. 

Only one note in and he felt a tear at his cheek. He didn’t want to stop, though, so he pushed through, continued to play. 

It was just a simple tune professors used to teach beginners with, but it was still music  _ he _ was making with an  _ instrument _ , and that in itself was overwhelmingly emotional for Jaskier. 

Jasio and a couple other deer from the herd plodded up to listen, and the audience made Jaskier’s heart sing even louder. He stretched his wings out wide, and fluttered them along to the beat of his song. The tune quavered in a gentle and organic way, as if the sound was  _ meant _ to be there, floating in the breeze. 

It blended seamlessly with the forest’s natural melody; the song it played from dawn to dusk. The light woosh of air through the leaves, the river’s soothing hum, the pitchy rustling of wildlife in the brush. Jaskier was there as accompaniment to the greater orchestra already playing, and it made him feel so  _ alive _ , so included. 

As he played, the song morphed into something more complex, something chirping and cheerful, like a bird celebrating its first flight. He sprung up from his seat to tap the beat out on the log with a hoof, and revelled in the additional sound. 

In that moment he was  _ one _ with the very music of life. Jaskier felt his song move through him in a way he’d never experienced before. Whether it was some kind of magic or just the sheer euphoria of playing an instrument again made no difference. It was transcendent. It was a revelation. It was his rebirth, and he was a  _ symphony _ . He was made for this, and he needed to tell the world through song. 

Jaskier lowered his pan flute to do just that, eager to hear his voice join nature’s melody. However, right as he drew a breath in to start his song, a lone bird call caught his attention. 

The magic of the moment drifted away as he lowered his wings and raised an ear to catch the message from the skies. It came again, the twittering sound that he knew translated to: ‘ _ Alert. Pay attention. Human in the forest _ ’.

Jaskier scrambled to set his instrument down, and fumbled in his satchel to pull out his embroidered face covering. He sniffed the air as he started tying its ribbons to his horns. 

He didn’t smell Liatris, couldn’t sense her either. What other human knew where he lived? The only other human he talked to was Mr. Buidhe, and he only ever met with him in Ada’s garden. 

Had he missed something? Had some  _ tragedy _ befallen Luibh as he looked away? Some catastrophe that compelled a brave villager to go into the dangerous woods to ask for Jaskier’s help? He was, in their eyes, a god after all; Samhradh-Arinn. 

Or perhaps they’d realized what he really was, and a hunter was now on their way to test their skill against the meat of his hide. 

He had no idea and it  _ frightened _ him. 

Just as he finished securing the cloth, he heard the panicked noises of the human drawing closer. He backed up, and Jasio burred at the tree line where the sounds came from. 

He wanted to run, wanted to hide, wanted to lift off the ground and soar far away. 

Then Jaskier sniffed the air again and his heart nearly stopped. 

**_“JASKIER!!”_ **

Sudden flashbacks to the night he was taken by the Fae had him seeing spots in his vision. 

This wasn’t _ real _ . 

It couldn’t be. 

It was another trick, _it had to be._

He shook his head to free himself of the spots and the fainty feeling, and grew  _ angry _ . 

If his kind wanted to talk they could do so without cruel tricks. He was going to tell them as much and make them grovel for his forgiveness. He stood to his full height, puffed out his wings menacingly, and placed a strong hand on the hilt of the precious dagger strapped to his hip. 

And then Geralt burst through the tree line.

….

_ No _ . 

A dream, a trick; it wasn’t  _ real _ . He wasn’t.  **_Real_ ** .

The fake Geralt’s eyes went from wide and panicked to confused, hurt… and then  _ suspicious _ . 

The figment’s posture changed, shifted into a defensive stance as it eyed him; looked him over for weaknesses, catalogued all his oddities and filed them away. It looked so much like him; so much like his Geralt. The only mistakes they’d made were around his face: they’d given him a light, close shaven beard, a sharp scar over his left eye, and a small nick above his right brow. Had Leeta really listened to his description of the Witcher so poorly? That night he’d spilt his heart out to her— to the bird on the log— he remembered describing Geralt in  _ vivid _ detail. So why was...

Nevertheless, Jaskier decided immediately that this _ fiction _ before him was far more wicked a trick than the last, and the hand around his dagger’s hilt tightened. 

“Where’s Jaskier?” Fake Geralt gritted out.

‘ _ I’m right here _ ,’ he wanted to say. ‘ _ I’m right here, Geralt. It’s you that’s not. You’re not really here. _ ’ 

Instead, he stayed silent and simply gave a single beat of his wings as warning. 

The false Witcher made to say something else, then paused, mouth agape, his eyes fixed to Jaskier’s hip where he gripped his dagger. 

“Where’d you get that,” the figment whispered, in a broken voice.

‘ _ It’s mine, the real you gave it to me _ ,’ he replied, in his head.

“That’s not  _ yours _ ,” the damned thing said in Geralt’s voice, now louder and  _ inscenced; _ so much like the voice that screamed him off the mountain.

It hurt. He wanted to cry.

**_“WHERE’D YOU GET THAT!?”_ ** The liar’s Geralt roared and charged him all at once, silver sword raised.

Jaskier barely had time to react before the thing was upon him. To his surprise, he caught its blade before it met his shoulder; held it firmly in his grip, and marveled that his hand had remained intact. A slice like that should’ve cut him through. The fake Geralt yanked at the sword with a frustrated growl and it  _ hurt _ Jaskier. And he was  _ bleeding _ .

But that didn’t make sense, because illusions shouldn’t be able to physically harm the recipient; couldn’t actually wound. So, why was he—  _ how _ could he be...

‘ **_...oh._ ** ’

It was then that he realized it; finally understood what was happening, why the telltale scent of illusion magic was missing. Despite how unbelievable the situation felt. If the sword was real, tangible, solid… Geralt was, too.

Jaskier sucked a shuddering breath in and—in a voice coated in disbelief—whispered,

“ _ Geralt _ ?”

The sword stilled, and Geralt’s face blanched startlingly pale, as if he’d seen a ghost.

Perhaps, in a way, he had. 

“What?” Geralt breathed, the word more sound than question.

“Geralt…  _ is that you _ ?” Jaskier asked louder, already knowing the answer.

They stared at each other in silence for a while, just breathing each other’s air. 

Disbelieving.

Waiting.

Geralt hesitantly let go of the sword. He wasn’t used to just  _ letting it go _ like that, Jaskier knew this. But he did, and then used a newly freed hand to slowly… cautiously... reach up towards Jaskier’s covered face. Before he could touch the hanging fabric, Jaskier flinched and Geralt’s hand stilled in response. 

_ Would his Witcher recognize him _ ? 

When Geralt’s hand moved towards him again, he forced himself to stillness. No matter how much it pained him, he  _ had _ to know.

The gentle hand met the edge of his cloth—the only thing shielding him from those piercing golden eyes— and lifted. 

Now, with his vision unfettered by the blue fabric, Jaskier wondered how he’d ever mistaken the man before him for an illusion. 

Geralt looked so heartbreakingly beautiful.

Slitted pupils searched his face, hanging on every feature. Then… Jaskier had to choke back a sob once he saw the  _ undeniable _ recognition in the other’s eyes. 

“... _ Jaskier _ ?” 

The Fae gasped at hearing his name in the other man’s voice once more. Jaskier had long since accepted that he’d never hear Geralt say  _ anything _ ever again. Yet there he was, listening to his Witcher utter the now foreign-sounding syllables that made up  _ his name _ . He was near tears again, so—to prevent breaking down completely— it was time to pull out the humor.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier nervously chuckled, and used a shaky hand to tuck and secure his cloth behind a horn. 

He expected a laugh, a rant, a long-winded interrogation. 

What he did _ not _ expect was to have the wind knocked out of him as Geralt embraced him in a  _ hug _ of all things. 

He hadn’t been aware his Witcher knew  _ how _ to hug.

“ _ Oof! _ Hah, yeah, nice to see you too, big guy,” he wheezed, “Or, rather,  _ not-so-big-guy. _ Have you shrunk, Geralt?” 

“ _ It’s really you _ ,” Geralt exclaimed, voice muffled against Jaskier’s chest, “It  _ is! _ It’s you— **_fuck_ ** — Jaskier, it’s  _ you!! _ ” 

“Yeah, sure am! And you’re definitely  _ you _ , aswell; albeit, a tad— _ ah _ — touchier” Jaskier laughed, “I thought you were another trick of some sort, but— uh…”

Jaskier gently pried Geralt off him, big, clawed hands on his now smaller-seeming shoulders. 

“Wait, Geralt. How are you here?” 

Geralt blinked at him, seemingly confused by the question. The Witcher made to answer, but suddenly stopped, nose curled. Then he gasped, a pained expression crossing his face as he lifted Jaskier’s bleeding right hand off his shoulder.

“Damn it, I  _ hurt _ you.”

“Geralt, it’s fine—“

“ _ No, it’s not. _ ”

“Ge—“

“ _ It’s  _ **_NOT_ ** _ fine! _ ” Geralt shouted, emotions spilling over. “I’ve only just found you, and I’ve already hurt you, again— it’s  _ not  _ okay.” 

Geralt just stood there, holding Jaskier’s bleeding hand… staring at it with wet, fearful eyes. The Fae slowly sank to his knees, gently but firmly guiding his Witcher down with him to sit on the soft, blood stained grass. 

They sat there for a while, Geralt’s mind elsewhere; his eyes unfocused and dazed. Eventually his expression relaxed into the rational determination Jaskier was so familiar with; thank Melitele. Geralt ‘ _ hmm _ ’d his ever-recognizable ‘ _ hmm _ ’ and rested Jaskier’s wounded hand on his lap before pulling a couple things from the various compartments along his belt: Bandages, a suture and thread, a salve or disinfectant of some kind. _ Ah _ , so he’d finally started carrying them on his own then? Jaskier smiled at that, feeling faintly proud of the effect he’d apparently had on the other man’s sense of self preservation. 

He let Geralt work on his hand, figuring that he probably _ needed _ to do it. That patching his hand up somehow meant more to the Witcher than the mere act itself. 

Stitches done and ointment laid, Geralt silently wrapped the bandages around Jaskier’s palm. When he was finished, Geralt gingerly placed a hand on one of Jaskier’s; on the one he’d injured. The large Fae stared and wondered at how small his Witcher’s hand looked against his own. 

“I’m sorry… Jaskier,” Geralt finally spoke. “For everything.” 

“....Alright,” the Fae replied, too stunned to say more. 

Geralt tore his gaze away from their hands and locked eyes with his former bard. 

“It’s not alright, but— _ fuck _ —Jaskier, I want to make it alright again, if you’d let me.” 

Jaskier opened his mouth… then shut it. Then gave a contemplative ‘ _ hmm _ ’ of his own. Geralt took the non-reply as signal to continue. 

“I was angry, I was blinded by rage, but that in no way made what I said to you alright. You weren’t to blame for any of those things, none of them. Destiny, fate, whatever— she was the one pulling the strings. It was fucking  _ disgusting _ for me to put all that on you. There hasn’t been a moment since then that I haven’t regretted what I said, and there’s nothing I can ever do to right that wrong, I  _ know _ that… But I need you to know,” Geralt took a deep shuddering breath in, “I need you to know that you didn’t deserve it, what I did to you. All of those years, you put up with me, and look how I repaid you.” 

Jaskier watched the dampness in the corners of Geralt’s eyes shimmer and ripple, and almost winced upon seeing a lone tear bubble over and escape down his Witcher’s cheek. 

“I don’t deserve to have you back in my life,” Geralt continued, “But, I’m a selfish man.” 

‘ _ Damn,’  _ Jaskier thought, _ ‘He really means it. _ ’ The honesty in the Witcher’s voice gave weight to his words. 

“So just,  _ please _ ,” Geralt looked down, squared his shoulders, and looked back up with a determined expression. “Let me try again.” 

The speech was a nice touch, but Jaskier had been convinced from the moment he’d heard his Witcher say  _ ‘I’m sorry’ _ . He wanted to say something elegant, something meaningful and tender to soothe Geralt, but instead he said:

“Of course, you horse’s _ arse _ .”

The Witcher, apparently surprised by his answer, mumbled nonsense noises before settling on a good old fashioned, affirmative grunt. 

Now there was the Geralt he knew. 

This time it was Jaskier that pulled the other into a relieved embrace. The joy that filled him bubbled over as grateful laughter, and he nestled his face against the top of Geralt’s head. 

“I missed you, you utter oaf,” Jaskier muttered into Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt responded by giving a disbelieving laugh of his own and snuggling into the hug.

They stayed like that for a good while; rejoicing in each other’s arms, breathing deeply, basking in the euphoria of their scents blending once more, finally reunited. 

Geralt eventually broke the silence, mumbling something about how ‘ _ fucking big _ ’ Jaskier was. 

The, indeed, very large Fae pulled away again with a chuckle.

“Was wondering when you were gonna bring  _ that _ up.”

Geralt smiled, almost sheepishly.

“I, uh...didn’t want to be rude.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! This chapter was such a relief to post, but dear lord, it was a doozy to write 😂  
> I made a new poll for my "special project" [here](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1291856227601805312?s=20) and one with a question in regards to the different services I could use [here](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1291858435311509504?s=20) . ❤️


	16. Held

As if the day hadn’t brought him enough surprises, Liatris had stopped by shortly after Geralt’s inexplicable arrival.

He had just gotten Geralt to stop fussing over his injured hand when he heard his bird friend’s warning. Shortly after, he could sense Lia, and tried to brace Geralt for the company. As anticipated, the small girl burst through the trees, shouting about how the Witcher Jaskier sang about was ‘ _ on his way over, right now _ ’, only to stop and pout dejectedly when she spotted Geralt; apparently grumpy that he got there first.

Jaskier had expected Geralt to insist she leave, or awkwardly skulk as he and Lia spoke, but—oddly enough— he did neither of those things. Instead, he’d knelt down to greet the kid, and actually talked with her. Jaskier introduced Lia, who had bowed at her fake title of  _ ‘Ambassador of Samhradh-Arinn’, _ earning a little chuckle from Geralt. The Witcher tried to introduce himself, but Liatris enthusiastically informed him that she knew exactly who he was and that Jaskier told her ‘ _ lots _ ’ about him already. 

Before she could ‘ _ share _ ’ anymore, Jaskier stopped her to ask if she could help out. Geralt hadn’t anticipated staying out in the woods for more than just a couple hours, so they asked her if she could handle a  _ ‘very important mission’ _ . Said mission was to tell Danika that Roach needed board for the night, and that Geralt of Rivia would retrieve her the next day. Geralt, in a whisper, also requested she politely inform Mr. Buidhe that his friend was _ ‘just fine’ _ , and that there was no need to worry. Liatris nodded, assuring them that she took her job as messenger very seriously. She nabbed a quick hug from her favorite Fae before heading out.

Much to his relief, the Witcher didn’t immediately bombard him with questions at her departure. He merely… listened. Jaskier slowly walked around the clearing, introducing Geralt to his herd, showing him the various trinkets and gifts he’d collected. Saving the best for last, he brought him over to his little shack. 

“Buidhe’s, I take it?” Geralt finally asked.

“...Yes. You spoke then?” 

“Quite a bit. Had to ask him about the contract. He’s very fond of you.” 

‘ _ Contract _ ?’ 

Jaskier’s wings drooped as he processed what that meant.  _ Of course _ . Their reunion… It was no coincidence, no merciful gift from Destiny. His Witcher had been tracking a contract, like usual. Except this one had been put out on him.

Geralt frowned, probably realizing what he’d said, and apologized. He started to explain the contract he’d picked up, but Jaskier shook his head and waved the topic off. He wasn’t quite ready for that conversation, not while he was still adjusting to Geralt’s presence. 

They did that for a while, danced around topics, treading carefully around the elephant in the room. Or…  _ elephants. _ There were a lot of big things they needed to address, but the day was far too bright and hot to start such conversation. Important, personal stories were best told in the dark, around a calming fire. 

When the sun had sunk low enough for Jaskier’s liking, he asked Geralt to start just such a fire while he went to retrieve dinner. Hare and trout easily caught, the worried Fae sat by the river bank until nightfall, thinking about what he’d say and how he’d say it. When he returned, Geralt was sat silently in front of the fire, poking it with a stick and watching the embers float up into the stars. 

It was such a familiar sight, one he’d sorely missed. All at once, Jaskier felt transported back to their days on the path. Back to before…

“You looking to feed a whole party?”

Geralt’s voice broke him out of his reminiscing. He shook his head and joined the Witcher near the fire with a shrug.

“Well, I suppose I went overboard, but you must be hungry, yes?” 

“Not for a feast but,” Geralt hummed warmly and took a couple fish and a hare from Jaskier’s full hands, “...I appreciate it.” 

They both got to preparing the food, Geralt flaying the hare and Jaskier cleaning the fish Geralt had chosen. Everything was quiet, save for the crackling of the flame. The silence reminded him so much of the lonely night after the mountain, how he’d hated the foreign emptiness, the heavy, hanging air. 

“I was so mad at you,” Jaskier whispered, out of nowhere. Geralt paused his task to look up at him, eyes taking in the Fae’s pained expression.

“I know,” the Witcher said before awkwardly clearing his throat, “…. and you have every right to still be mad at m—“

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He huffed, cutting Geralt off, “I  _ should _ yell at you. I should scream at you until I can’t scream anymore, tell you just how badly you fucked me up.” 

Jaskier picked a bone out of the fish he was working on and stared at it for a second, choosing his next words.

“But… I got tired of being angry, Geralt. I don’t know when I let it go, but seeing you again I… I’m just relieved.” 

“Still,” Geralt sighed and rubbed the back of his wrist over his forehead, hands dirtied from his work. “You don’t need to do that.” 

When Jaskier looked at him funny, head tilted and brows scrunched together, Geralt frowned in confusion, before—thankfully— realizing he needed to specify what exactly the  _ ‘that’ _ in his statement was. “Forgive me so soon, I mean. I haven’t earned your forgiveness yet.” 

Jaskier laughed at that, genuinely amused.

“Of course not, you doof. I said I’m not angry anymore, but I never said I forgave you for anything yet. You’re going to have to work for that,” he mused, pulling a smile from Geralt. “Look, all I’m saying is… I’m glad that you’re here and I don’t feel like I have to wrench an honest apology out of you. I’m actually… I’m actually surprised that you did so yourself, and so eloquently at that. When did you become such a skilled wordsmith, hm?” 

“Hmmf,” Geralt grumbled, “An old dog can stand to learn a few new tricks now and then. Besides, it’s been a while. A lot has happened.” 

“Mmm, true. Must’ve done plenty in the two odd years without me.” 

Geralt stilled over his hare and for a moment there was silence. Thick, confused silence.

“Nine,” Geralt deadpanned, now staring into the fire intensely.

“W-what?” 

“Nine years. It’s been  _ nine years _ , Jaskier.” 

“ _ O-oh _ ,” the Fae stuttered, “Oh, I see. Right.” 

Geralt looked over to him and frowned, sadly. 

And then finally he asked.

“What happened to you, Jaskier?” 

——

Geralt had slowly finished cooking his food as Jaskier explained what’d happened since they’d last seen one another. His experience in Sídhe-Sifra, his Fae family, his frightening return to the human realm, and all else that followed. When he’d spoken about the men who attacked him, Geralt finally explained how he’d gotten the contract. 

It made sense, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. 

As Jaskier spoke about his time in Luibh, Geralt dug into the meat he’d cooked. It smelled so  _ odd _ , charred and unpleasant. He snuffed mid-sentence when the wind blew the strong odor his way. 

“Must be hungry, too,” Geralt mumbled around a mouthful, “Why don’t you eat something?” 

“Ah, I mean,” Jaskier’s tail thumped awkwardly against the ground. “You heard what happened when I tried cooked meat, I wouldn’t want to gross you out…” 

The Witcher huffed through his nose and raised an eyebrow; a combination that most definitely meant ‘ _ Really? _ ’. Thankfully, this time he chewed and swallowed before replying.

“Jaskier… you think a little blood is going to offend me?” 

“W-well, no, but—“

“I won’t think any less of you just because you’re on a  _ raw _ diet,” Geralt scoffed. Still, Jaskier made no move to eat. The Witcher sighed before switching to a more gentle voice. “ _ Please _ ? ...You don’t need to hide from me.” 

Jaskier contemplated that for a moment before nodding and picking up a hare he’d set aside earlier, with the intention of eating it later, in solitude. He watched Geralt carefully as he bit into it, wary of the other’s reaction. However, Geralt just seemed to relax upon finally seeing him eat, and went back to his own meal with a poorly contained smile. 

Jaskier made quick work of the first hare and grabbed a trout next as Geralt finished his own meal.

“So,” Jaskier said after a bite of fish, “Your turn. What happened after… well, you know. What have you been up to?” 

Geralt busied his hands by throwing the leftover rabbit bones into the fire as he talked. Jaskier was impressed at just how much the Witcher told him, so completely different to their prior, predominantly one-sided conversations. As he spoke though, this too began to make sense. 

Jaskier found out about Ciri— Geralt’s Child Surprise— about her strange and volatile power, about Yennefer returning to help teach her, and about his Witcher’s new title of  _ ‘Father’. _ Clearly, Jaskier had Geralt’s adoptive daughter to thank for the new ease of speech he saw in his friend. Though, for whatever reason, Geralt seemed to avoid talking about what he’d done directly after… the mountain incident. Didn’t mention looking for Jaskier, or worrying about him in his absence or  _ anything _ . 

Was it possible that the Witcher really hadn’t cared to look for him after he’d calmed down? Jaskier knew he’d been mad but… a part of him always thought that his friend might have begun to worry after a couple days or so. Sure, Geralt’s apologetic speech had been genuine— obviously he’d started caring at some point— but how long had it taken for him to realize his bard’s absence? 

Perhaps it was unfair for him to wonder such things, since Geralt was now here with him anyways. Here and… staring at him. 

Jaskier pulled the split hare bone— that he’d been absentmindedly sucking the marrow from— out of his mouth, and quirked an inquisitive brow at the Witcher.

“Uh. W-what’re you looking at me like that for?” 

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed before scooting a bit closer to Jaskier and exaggeratedly narrowing his eyes, tone pitched in playful suspicion. “The great  _ Julian Alfred Pankratz? _ With nothing to say? I don’t believe it.” 

Jaskier chuffed and threw his marrowless bone into the flames along with Geralt’s.

“Well, it was a lot to take in, let a man think for a second. Besides, mister  _ Geralt of Rivia _ , you’re one to talk. With all your… t-talking,” Jaskier stumbled, realizing how redundant his statement had been. 

“Mmm, yes. I suppose Ciri—“

“Oh, don’t think you have to spell it out for me, Witcher; I’m not daft. You obviously love your little one quite a bit. Enough to let her make you all  _ mushy gushy~ _ ” 

Geralt huffed in mock offense and crossed his arms. 

“Me? ‘Mushy gushy’?  _ Please _ .”

“ _ Mhm _ . Mushy, gushy, and squishy!” the Fae sweetly taunted, reaching out a big hand to pinch at one of Geralt’s cheeks. “ _ Big ‘ol softie! _ A once wild Witcher, now tamed and docile! A nice, friendly wolf. A  _ good _ boy!” 

Geralt sputtered, batting away Jaskier’s hand with an indignant noise. It was hard to tell with the fire casting daubs of warm light upon his face, but the Witcher’s cheeks seemed a touch pink. 

‘ _ Oh? _ ’ thought Jaskier, ‘ _ What a delightful reaction _ .’

The now giggling Fae scooted closer and continued his pestering.

“Puppy Witcherr _ rr _ ,” he crooned, annoyingly, “Want someee  _ pet-pets _ ?” 

“Alright, alright—enough,” the Witcher burred, pulling the big Fae’s hand out of his hair where he’d been  _ ‘pet-petting’ _ him. “Don’t push it, bard.”

‘ _ Bard _ .’ 

The word echoed in his mind as he withdrew his hand. 

Jaskier’s ears flicked down, and he grunted softly, frowning at the flames beside them.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, nervously.

He huffed again, switching his gaze to the ground.

“ _ Jaski _ —“

“I’m fine, it’s  _ fine _ — I’m just… going to have to get used to hearing you refer to me like that again.”

“ _ What _ ?” Geralt asked, taken aback. The confused Witcher seemed flustered for a moment, before a new, more panicked expression washed over his face. “No, you don’t have to ‘ _ get used to _ ’ me treating you any kind of way— I won’t call you anything you’re not comfortable with,” he finished, words a tad rushed with worry. 

Jaskier couldn’t stop the grim, slightly sardonic laugh that left him then, which only confused his poor friend further.

“Don’t get all chivalrous on me. Hearing my own name said out loud is weird enough as it is, but to hear you call me  _ ‘bard’ _ ,” Jaskier’s nose wrinkled as he said it. “It’s just odd is all.” 

Geralt furrowed his brows and tilted his head at his friend, apparently not quite getting it. So Jaskier took pity on him.

“Oh, Geralt,” he sighed, tiredly, “I haven’t been a bard in years.” 

Geralt shook his head and looked… sad?

“Nonsense,” said the Witcher, “You just haven’t performed in a while. Means nothing. You’ll play again when you figure out the—uh... glamouring?” 

“Yes,  _ glamouring _ ,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

It turned out Muralis had been right: Witchers had little knowledge of their kind. When he’d talked about his time at Sídhe-Sifra, Geralt had looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. He’d answered as many of the Witcher’s questions as he could. Unfortunately, Jaskier had answers for fewer of them than he would’ve liked. Muralis had explained a lot: how they’d controlled his memories, subdued him, slowly changed him— irreversibly so— through exposure to their world. But he knew his Elder still kept secrets; hadn’t told him everything. For instance, Jaskier was still in the dark on the real reason he’d been chosen. He remembered the reason they’d given him but…. somehow he knew there was more to it than that. 

Geralt still stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain. Jaskier hummed. The Witcher’s newly found patience was… appreciated. 

“To achieve any sort of normalcy out there, I’ll have to look human again. Which means I have to get my glamour right,” the Fae further explained, “And I’m stuck on the last part. Have been for some time.” 

A minute of silence passed before Geralt spoke up again.

“Then we’ll work on it.” 

“We?” Jaskier repeated.

“Yes. I’ll … I’ll help however I can. I don’t know how, but I can try to… ground you? Or something...” The Witcher scrunched his nose up while thinking the problem over. It was a surprisingly adorable look for a man who usually held more subdued expressions. “Whatever does the trick,” Geralt offered, putting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I’m here,” the Witcher paused, before shyly completing his statement. “...for you.” 

Sweet Melitele, the man really _ had _ softened like a ripe plum, hadn’t he? Jaskier’s tail twitched in an embarrassed little circle as he considered his Witcher’s words.

“Do you mean… you’ll stay with me?” 

Geralt laughed with a warm smile.

“Of course? I’d have to be crazy to leave you now…” the Witcher’s voice softened near the end of his sentence. 

“You’re certain? You won’t change your mind?” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt chuckled, drawing out the other’s name in amused exasperation. “No, I won’t change my mind. And, yes, I’m certain. Where else am I going to find a poet crazy enough to sing my praises?” 

A great mirth consumed him all at once, and Jaskier pulled Geralt into the third hug they’d shared that day. 

——

The two of them agreed on a plan: They’d work on Jaskier’s glamour, and—once achieved—set out on the path together, just like old times. The only caveat being that if Jaskier managed to get the spell right before midsummer day, they’d stay until its passing. Jaskier explained that he wouldn’t leave the people of Luibhtorrach before Midaëte; it was too important. He’d expected some sort of push back— as Geralt had earlier admitted how odd and vaguely unsettling he’d found the town— but the Witcher readily agreed and… that was that.

Afterwards, Jaskier suggested they turn in for the night, so he welcomed the other into his shack. It was generally tidy, but still, he nervously pushed some odds and ends into a corner. Unsatisfied, Jaskier tutted and, with the fluffy end of his tail, started to sweep the floor of its barely noticeable layer of dust. Upon seeing how anxious the large Fae was, Geralt made a calming sort of ‘ _ shushing _ ’ noise, and gently pulled him over to the generous cluster of furs he used in lieu of a bed. 

He watched Geralt remove his armour and disrobe, leaving him in just his smallclothes. 

‘ _ How strange _ ,’ Jaskier thought, cocking his head at the nearly nude man before him. After all this time, he still calmly changed in front of Jaskier, as if all were normal. 

Geralt  _ ‘hmm’d _ inquisitively at him. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure what the Witcher was asking. Not until the other man thumbed at the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, brow raised and head tilted, mirroring the Fae’s. 

“Oh! You— _ Uh _ … you want me to undress?”

Geralt chuckled at this and gave Jaskier an amused look.

“Do you not undress before sleeping?” the Witcher mused sarcastically, thumb and forefinger still messing with his shirt.

_ The cheeky bastard. _

“Yes, right,” Jaskier said, turning around atop the furs. “Just give me a second, it’s a bit of a process.” 

The large Fae spread his wings as much as the walls of the shack would allow and reached his arms over his head, fumbling around; trying to find the laces under the back of his collar, which he had to undo to free his feathery appendages. He shifted and strained to find the right angle, eventually locating the laces over his left wing and getting to work on it. He’d just slipped the first lace free when suddenly, he felt  _ hands _ on his back, over his right wing. 

Jaskier startled a bit, body jumping slightly and feathers puffing at the unexpected touch. 

Yet again, he heard the same, soft  _ ‘shushing’ _ noise from behind him, and only then realized that Geralt was trying to help. 

He settled and let the Witcher undo the rest of the hard-to-reach laces: the ones above his wings and tail. Once Geralt had finished helping, Jaskier made quick work of removing the remaining accessories on his own; he undid his sash, removed the belt with his satchel and dagger attached, and finally slipped out of the large, billowy garment. He was about to turn around when he felt one of Geralt’s hands on him again… yet this time on his right wing.

Immediately Jaskier tensed, feathers once more  _ ‘poofing’ _ in surprise. He knew Geralt was just curious, of course he would be, his old friend had sprouted  _ wings _ , among other things. But a touch to the wings… it felt intimate—  _ was _ intimate. He’d been in preening circles with his family in Sídhe-Sifra, but had only ever let his most trusted of kin touch his feathers, and vice versa. So, for the Witcher to touch him there like that was… it was a lot. 

“ _ Wow _ , Jaskier… look at these things, they’re huge,” his Witcher marveled from behind him.

Geralt ran his hands gently over the Fae’s wings in a reverent, exploratory way; fingers tracing the edges of flight feathers, rough pads dragging along quills, and brushing against the downy fluff near the base of his wing. 

Jaskier held his breath. 

It felt so nice. 

“This alright?” He heard the Witcher ask, hand still distractingly buried between his feathers. 

“ _ Mmm _ ,” Jaskier replied. He pressed back into Geralt’s hand, and the added pressure had his eyelids fluttering shut. 

The instant, overwhelming satisfaction that the firm touch brought him was quite literally primal. 

It took a moment for Jaskier to realize he’d started purring; a low, rumbling happy sound. However, by the time the Fae noticed, he was so thoroughly blissed that he couldn’t care less. He assumed Geralt himself was pleased with the noisy reaction, as he started massaging more intently.

“Hmm, did I find a good spot or something?” He distantly heard his Witcher say, words layered in amusement. 

In response, Jaskier simply pressed more insistently against the wonderful, magical hand on his wing, earning him a hearty chuckle. 

It felt so incredibly good, all he knew was he wanted  _ more _ of it.

Jaskier’s wings fluttered giddily, momentarily changing the angle and allowing Geralt’s hand to dip into a little space between his scapular feathers. There, his Witcher’s hand brushed against a raised section of skin; the location of one of his preening glands, which, unfortunately, Jaskier hadn’t known to be an erogenous zone until right that second. 

Jaskier bodily shook, wings fluttering in spasms, and just barely managed to cover his mouth with his hands to muffle an embarrassing cry. 

“ _ Shit! _ Jask, are you okay?” the worried Witcher behind him gasped, hand immediately withdrawing.

“Y-yeah,” Jaskier stuttered out, cheeks flushed in shame. He tucked his wings—still slightly twitchy— close to him and turned to face the other. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was—“

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Geralt inspecting his own, now oil-slicked, hand with a surprised and vaguely flustered expression. 

“I-is this—“

“It’s preening oil!” Jaskier rushed to answer, desperate to stop whatever guess the Witcher had been about to make concerning the substance.

“Ah,” Geralt exclaimed, evidently relieved. “Did it hurt? I’m sorry, you seemed to enjoy it before I—“ 

“No, I’m fine, I guess it’s just,” Jaskier scrunched his face up as he watched Geralt subtlety sniff the air, a look of understanding crossing over his face once he’d scented the  _ obvious _ arousal drifting off the Fae, “the  _ tiniest _ bit sensitive? I swear, I didn’t know!” 

“Jask, it’s alright, really... I’m sorry I started prodding about without your permission, I should’ve asked first,” the Witcher admitted, looking a little flushed himself. 

‘ _ Hmm. How interesting _ .’

If Jaskier wasn’t genuinely tired, he might’ve pried; asked Geralt why he was also blushing, why he suddenly smelled so acutely of spice and musk and  _ need _ . 

Instead, he fetched Geralt a scrap cloth to dry his hand on, and settled into the bed of furs with a sleepy huff. 

“Apology accepted,” he replied, voice muffled as he pressed his face against the fluff beneath him. “ ‘Sides, you did ask, you overly worried softie.” 

Geralt grunted, unconvinced. 

“I should’ve asked… better… then,” the Witcher mumbled, probably still trying to blame himself somehow.

“Hmmf, Geralt. Stop that grumbling and lay down,” Jaskier said, turning on his side to make room for him. “No harm, no foul. It just… felt nice, s’all…” 

He patted the space in front of him and waited, eyes on his fidgety bedmate. Geralt finally relented, snuggling in and giving him a grateful little half-smile. Just like that, Jaskier found himself once again surprised by the Witcher’s odd air of normalcy around him. It was true that they’d begun to show casual affection towards each other before they’d separated, especially while sharing beds… but it’d been so long. Jaskier had expected the Witcher to simply fill the space he’d made for him, not snuggle in right against him. They were basically spooning, and the position he’d chosen to lay in made Geralt the  _ little _ spoon. 

Rather than protest, though, Jaskier nuzzled his face against the top of Geralt’s head, draped an arm around his shoulder, and sighed contentedly. He hoped with all he had that Geralt would still be there come morning; that the day hadn’t been some wishful dream. 

——

Thankfully, Geralt’s return had not been a mere figment of Jaskier’s imagination. 

He’d woken with the sun, now used to an early routine. Geralt must have turned over sometime in the night, because Jaskier found him snuggled face-first against his chest upon opening his eyes. The Witcher felt so soft and small against him, he almost considered staying in bed late like he used to. But he had fish to catch, deer to sing to, and his glamour to work on.

After rousing his sleepy friend, Jaskier got to work. He fetched water for them and cleaned the remains of the night’s fire. Before he could do anything else, Geralt had asked about retrieving Roach, reminding Jaskier that the forest was too dense for her to safely traverse. Of course, Jaskier had already thought up a fix for that problem and told Geralt simply:

“I’ll just ask the trees to move out of the way for a bit.” 

The look Geralt had given him was a mixed one; incredulous, doubtful and curious all at once. It was summer though, and such magic came easily to him during the summer, so Jaskier parted the dense wood with little effort. He left his dumbfounded Witcher in the clearing with a wave, off to catch them breakfast from Buina’s fertile waters. 

Hunting had gone well. Jaskier had managed to nab some impressively juicy trout; large, healthy and with bright pink bellies. On his return walk, he also happened to spot a group of boar traveling by. What luck! He’d happily picked one out—planning ahead for dinner— and, afterwards, wondered if Geralt minded bite marks in his roast. 

Jaskier made it back to the clearing before Geralt and set to work on cleaning some of the trout for his friend. 

He hummed some mindless melody to Jasio as he busied himself with the fish, thinking about how wild and strange their current situation was. 

Geralt was back.

He was back, and—for whatever unknown reason— didn’t seem to mind that Jaskier was now Fae; armed with deadly fangs and claws, and, standing at full height, at least three heads taller than the other man. In fact, if he could allow his mind to wander to foolishly hopeful places, he thought Geralt might actually  _ like _ that Jaskier was bigger now, just based on the adorable way that the Witcher had curled up against him in his sleep. 

‘ _ Wouldn’t that be nice _ ,’ he mused, setting a clean fillet off to the side. 

After they’d been reunited, Jaskier knew immediately that the feelings he had for the burly Witcher hadn’t subsided in the least; if possible, they’d only strengthened with time. 

This left him both delightfully lovesick, and terribly nervous. He’d have to tell the Witcher of his feelings for him, even if it meant disturbing what they had now. There was also the matter of Yennefer. If she was like a mother to Ciri, was she now like a wife to Geralt? Or girlfriend? Partner? … Affiliate? He had a pretty good feeling that Yennefer of Vengerberg would likely detest the title of  _ ‘wife’ _ ; the word was too binding for a strong sorceress like her. From what he remembered, she enjoyed her independence. Naming conventions aside, would she tolerate Jaskier’s return? If they were indeed together, was there room for Jaskier in that? Would she mind Jaskier vying for the Witcher’s attention? If Geralt returned his affections, would they be able to work something out? Or was that off the table completely? And if Geralt  _ had _ to choose.

Who would he choose? 

There were far too many stressful questions floating around in the Fae’s head. Jaskier was incredibly glad upon hearing the call of his bird friend letting him know that Geralt was almost back. 

He waited for his friend at the clearing. Sensing his position, the Fae slowly started on the task of re-merging the forest, keeping its formation a step behind the Witcher as he guided Roach back. Eventually, they arrived and Jaskier happily waved them over. He was about to ask how it went, when he caught sight of something he thought he’d never see again.

“...Geralt, is that,” Jaskier placed a shaky hand over his mouth, eyes already spilling over with tears. 

Attached to one of Roach’s saddlebags was his old lute case. 

Geralt smirked proudly and had Roach turn for Jaskier, giving the Fae access to the case.

“Geralt, H-how,  _ Oh _ —“ Jaskier was a blubbering mess, completely undone by the return of his beloved instrument. His Witcher drew close and patted his back affectionately, waiting for him to calm down. When he finally stopped shaking, Jaskier reached out for the case; hesitant, careful.

‘ _ What if I harm her _ ,’ he thought, hands stopping a mere inch away from the case. ‘ _ What if my claws shred her strings? What if my grip splinters her wood? _ ’ 

Geralt picked up on his sudden anxiety and made the same  _ ‘shushing’ _ sound he’d used to calm Jaskier the night prior. 

“You won’t break it. I promise.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Jaskier whispered.

“Hmm,” Geralt mused. “... You love your lute. You won’t hurt it.” 

“But how—“

“I used to…” the Witcher paused, looking conflicted; unsure of himself. Then, it seemed as if he’d decided something. He cleared his throat and further straightened his already naturally stoic posture. “...I used to love watching you polish your lute in the evenings.” He took Jaskier’s hands and gave them both a comforting little squeeze. “You were so attentive, laboring over its surface, making every part shine. Delicately... Gently… you— _ uh _ … you used to wash my hair in much the same way.” 

Jaskier softly gasped, so happily surprised, but confused as well. He hadn’t been aware Geralt appreciated the baths he’d given him  _ that much _ . Feeling his heart melt, Jaskier turned to look at Geralt as he continued, slow but determined.

“… I’m not fragile, but you handled me with such care—with the same care you treated your most prized possession. You’re the only person I’ve ever known that…” Geralt took a deep breath in and paused there, thinking the rest of his words over. After a beat of silence, the Witcher shook his head and smiled warmly. 

“What I’m trying to say is... I know you won’t harm your lute, because I know just how intensely you love…” his Witcher’s eyes darted to the lute case, cheeks suddenly flushed an endearing pink, “Your lute. How much you love your lute.” 

Jaskier giggled, fluttering his wings in amusement at Geralt’s nervous little speech. He felt as if he’d been flirted with somehow, and, in the process, his own nerves had disappeared. 

“Well, if you insist,” he breathed, finally reaching for the case.

He detached the back from Roach’s saddlebag, smoothed a gentle hand over its familiar surface… and finally opened it up.

There it was; Filavandrel’s gift to him. His lute. His past, his passion, his identity. 

He picked it out of the case and gasped upon seeing his own reflection in the clear resin glazing. 

Geralt had been taking care of her. 

Real and proper care. 

And not only that, the fact that he had Jaskier’s lute with him  _ now _ — nine years later— told him that Geralt had traveled with her, always by his side. All this time. 

He set it gently back, still too overwhelmed to try and glamour his claws away to play it. 

Jaskier turned to Geralt to thank him, and was shocked to find the other man silently crying beside him. 

“ _ Geralt _ ? Oh dear, what’s—“ 

“I thought you were dead.” 

…

_ ‘...what?’ _

“I thought,” Geralt drew his shoulders up, head bowed between them, unsure of how to hold himself as he began to sob, “I thought you… When I couldn’t find you.” 

Jaskier closed his lute case and set it aside to deal with later. He softly whispered calming things to Geralt, told him it was alright, that it was all okay, and rubbed soothing circles over his back. 

“After you left I— I knew I fucked up. I was too _ slow _ , I thought I could find you before the next morning but…”

‘ _ He looked for me the very same day _ ,’ Jaskier realized, heart breaking at the thought.

“But your,” Geralt’s voice hiccuped with the force of his sobs, breathing veering towards erratic, “Your scent trail, it just— it just  _ ended _ . All your stuff—your lute, your pack, your journal—but no  _ you _ . No sign of you— you were gone. Completely gone, as if some bastard god had taken my stupid fucking wish seriously and just wiped you off the face of the Continent.” 

Geralt’s shoulders shook and Jaskier felt weak— felt like crying along with him. It was torture seeing him this way. Watching him break. 

“You died,” Geralt choked out, “over and over in my mind— you died and the last thing I said to you was—“

Jaskier drew the shaking man into his arms, stopping him from saying anymore with a gentle  _ ‘shhh’.  _

“It’s alright, I’m here,” he gently assured his Witcher, “It’s alright now. You didn’t wish me away.” 

Geralt sniffled against him, still crying but softer now. 

“You know,” Jaskier whispered, thoughtfully. “You're actually the one that brought me back.” 

When Geralt stilled against him in confusion, Jaskier smiled, knowing he was helping. He’d already told his Witcher of the mind magicks his kin had used on him… but it was the way he reiterated it now that mattered. 

“When I was in Sídhe-Sifra… I was stripped of everything I’d known,” he paused, “Even my own name.” 

Geralt’s arms loosened and wrapped around Jaskier’s waist as he spoke. 

“But somehow, I still felt you. Felt the memory of you clawing its way out, dying to be remembered. Until one day I said your name,” he sighed, recalling the moment as if it’d just happened, “And I _ remembered _ . It was the memory of you that brought me back…. So you see, dear Witcher. I’m practically impossible to get rid of.” 

Geralt laughed against him. 

“Fuck. Good, cause that sucked,” said Geralt, finally pulling back to look up at Jaskier.

‘ _ Gods, that smile. _ ’ 

Jaskier decided right then and there that he’d make it his personal mission to preserve that smile—his Witcher’s smile, Geralt’s smile— for as long as he possibly could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF, these last few chapters have been such a struggle to edit 😂  
> But, look! More communication! ✨  
> The [new twitter poll](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1291856227601805312?s=20) still has a day and a half left, and the [post explaining the project on Tumblr](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/625840753776721920/its-hmm-part-2-return-of-the-hmm) is still up as well.


	17. Supplication

“My tail still there, Geralt? C-can you see it?” 

“Mm, still there… but smaller.” 

The Fae let out an exasperated sigh and let the glamour go with a huff; fur, teeth, horns and wings all sprouting back like a puffer fish puffing. He rubbed a large hand over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “Maybe we should take a break. We’ve been at it for hours.”

“Hour. It’s only been an hour,” Geralt rumbled in amusement. He circled back around and took hold of Jaskier’s hands, “Let’s keep going.” 

Jaskier grumbled for a moment, before nodding with a resigned sigh. 

“Alright. A couple times more. Then dinner,” the Fae said as he closed his eyes to concentrate.

Geralt smiled at Jaskier’s calm but determined face; it was so… so incredibly cute. 

The Witcher, as he’d promised, had been helping the Fae practice like this daily for a good while now, and, naturally, it’d become an integral part of their day. Since their reunion, they’ve kept a fairly steady routine. In the mornings they’d talk over breakfast. Share the little things, small events that the other had missed: like when Jaskier used Eraim’s pipe for the first time or when Geralt and Ciri took down their first Alghoul together. Then in the afternoon, Jaskier would tend to the people of Luibh: fly over town to ensure all was well, visit Buidhe at Ada’s garden, check up on the Yellow Sunder fields, and tend to his herd. While Jaskier was away, Geralt busied himself with gathering herbs, brewing potions, studying some of the odder, mutated looking plants growing in the area— which Jaskier claimed to be native to Sídhe-Sifra— and occasionally, napping; a strange yet wonderful luxury he’d only ever enjoyed during the winters in Kaer Morhen. In the evenings, the Witcher would pry the Fae away from his  _ ‘very interesting’ _ conversation with Jasio and Roach, and coax him into practicing his glamour. 

He knew Jaskier wanted to practice, but it was apparently hard to motivate himself to do so. 

So, Geralt helped with that, along with other things.

He’d promised he’d find a way to help Jaskier concentrate, and—despite the fear that he might fail his friend yet again— he came through. 

The Witcher’s ‘ _ grounding _ ’ idea had proved successful. The two would stand facing one another, hands joined as they slowed and matched their breathing. Jaskier seemed to make significant progress with this method, and they were very,  _ very _ close to perfecting his glamour. Just a little less tail and a touch fewer feathers and they’d be in business. 

Time had flown, and Midaëte was only thirteen days away now. At this rate, Geralt was sure Jaskier would achieve his glamour even before the festival. 

As it was, Geralt had been spending a lot of time directly in front of his big, gorgeous Faerie companion, giving him ample opportunity to play out different versions of  _ his confession _ in his head. 

It was something Geralt needed to do as soon as possible; he felt like he’d burst if he kept his feelings for the other man inside any longer. 

The very moment he’d pulled back Jaskier’s face covering—realized it was really him, that he was alive— he’d wanted to  _ kiss _ him. That urge hadn’t left after the first time he felt it. Every day that passed, it grew stronger. 

The Witcher could admit to himself that he had a tendency to be obtuse, a little thick-headed when it came to interpreting the true feelings of others. But he wasn’t an idiot. He’d been aware of Jaskier’s own feelings since the day before the mountain incident; when the bard— heart worn  _ bravely _ on his sleeve—had asked Geralt to accompany him to the coast; to get away from it all. But it was more than that. In essence, Jaskier had asked Geralt to run away with him. Run away together,  _ be together.  _

Geralt had reacted… poorly, to say the least. The Witcher still wasn’t quite sure how to apologize for that specific blunder. Awful timing aside, being the non-idiot that he was, Geralt also realized that he might’ve caught on to the other’s affections… a bit late. 

Looking back, Jaskier had shown him love nearly every chance he got over their twenty years together. At the time, it’d just been so strange and new to Geralt. Being treated so kindly, so gently, and with the tender attention unique to the verbose bard… the Witcher hadn’t known how to process. Or rather, he denied himself the time to. 

Instead, he’d filed all the signs under ‘ _ the many weird things my bard does that I don’t understand _ ’, and let them sit there; unexamined. Untouched. 

Geralt had known he cared for Jaskier intensely when he feared the Djinn might bring him an early death—also his fault, one of many— but had assumed it was just… acute… platonic…  _ friendly love? _

Maybe he was a bit of an idiot, actually. 

He’d never been too good at discerning his own feelings, but that was still no excuse for what he did those final days before their ill-fated parting. Leaving Jaskier alone, without an answer, to seek distraction and comfort within the arms of Yennefer. Then yelling him off the mountain… 

Nonetheless…

Geralt knew that he was in love with Jaskier, had for the last nine, painful years. He’d waited so long to tell the other—didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to, really. He was done with waiting. If only he could work up the courage.

He was… nervous to confess. Mostly because he wasn’t sure if Jaskier still felt that way about him. He’d loved him once, that was obvious now, but Geralt had broken his heart and… well, if he hadn’t forced him away, Jaskier would have never gotten kidnapped by the Fae. In the end, it was all Geralt’s fault.

It was _ always _ his fault.

So, he wouldn’t blame Jaskier if he’d lost those feelings, after all Geralt had done to him. However, even anticipating rejection, the Witcher knew he would be crushed if that were the case, and he feared the possibility of yet more pain, more heartbreak. He didn’t want to go back to being…  _ unwanted.  _

“Geralt? Now?”

“Hm?” The Witcher responded, suddenly transported back to the present at Jaskier’s words.

“My tail? How about it now? Have I done it?”

Geralt moved to peer around the other, almost fully glamoured this time. Except for…

“Mm… no, still a bit of tail left.” 

“Damn…,” Jaskier sighed and let the glamour fall, rising back up to his now normal, towering height. “Well. Dinner, yes? Shall we?” The eager Fae motioned towards their usual fire site, bowing his head down with a smirk as if Geralt was a prince in need of ushering. Geralt chuckled and playfully pushed the other on the upper arm— a bit of a reach now. Jaskier joined him in laughter as they walked over to sit and have their dinner: a couple hares the Fae had caught earlier. 

Dinner was always a relaxing time for them, no reason to ruin it with sappy confessions tonight. 

——

Midsummer festival was only six days away now and Jaskier was getting antsy. 

He was so close, he knew he was. 

Everytime he practiced, he concealed just a little more. Lately when he tried, he could will his tail down to a nubbin, wings gone, and horns but tiny bumps on his forehead. 

It was only a matter of time.

The two of them stood as they normally did when they practiced: facing each other and holding hands, breathing in sync. This time though… Jaskier cracked an eye open to peek at the Witcher. He’d always wondered what the other focused on as they did this.

But— _ Sweet Melitele _ — he hadn’t expected to see Geralt staring back at him with the softest expression he’d ever seen on the other man’s face.

He gasped at the tender sight—Geralt immediately turning a warmer shade after being caught—and felt something settle within him, though he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly.

“ _ Jaskier! _ ” The Witcher looked like he’d forgotten that he’d been flustered a second prior and now beamed excitedly. 

“W-what? What is it?” Jaskier stuttered, surprised by the other man’s sudden enthusiasm. The Witcher only ever got this excited over a game of Gwent.

“You did it!  _ Look _ ,” Geralt pulled him over to the mirror they’d brought out from the shack—easier than magicking a gazing stone. Jaskier had been using it to check his progress after each session, and now as he looked back at his own reflection… 

‘ _... Not a feather, horn, hoof or tail in sight, _ ’ Jaskier thought, blinking slowly at his… peculiar reflection. ‘ _ I look… I look… _ ’ 

“ _ Human!! _ ” The perfectly glamoured Fae chirped with glee. “Like me, but before!  _ Geralt!! _ Geralt, I look Human! Are you seeing this, I look—“

Jaskier turned to face his Witcher so he could squeal about their victory some more but was stopped… by a pair of lips catching his own. 

The Human-Looking-Fae made a small, confused ‘ _ mmf? _ ’ noise against the other’s mouth. His brain felt… fuzzy. Warm. As if sparks might very well be flying out of his Human-Looking ears. 

Finally, something clicked on in his head and Jaskier melted. He pressed back, returning Geralt’s tender kiss with passionate exaltation. 

It was…  _ oh _ it was transcendent. 

He’d thought about doing this—dreamed about doing this— for what felt like a lifetime. 

A lifetime of following the White Wolf with unwavering loyalty. A lifetime of waiting, wanting, yearning— of learning to accept the poetic fate of his unrequited love…

Which, somehow, actually appeared to be… requited. 

Geralt’s kiss felt like release. 

Like he’d been holding his breath all this time without realizing it, and was finally allowed to let it go. 

To exhale all the doubt and fear and pain and heartbreak, and inhale pure hope— pure relief. 

Geralt moved his hands around his waist and pulled him in closer, making a soft, trembling noise that told Jaskier he was experiencing similar emotions to his own. 

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, but was more likely just barely a minute.

And it was wonderful.

And perfect.

…

Until Jaskier regained enough clarity to realize a few things.

“ _ Mmm, Gera _ —“ Jaskier mumbled against the Witcher’s lips before prying himself free, “Geralt, wait— _ stop! _ ” 

The other blinked and stepped back. Geralt looked dazed for a second before seemingly realizing what had just occurred. First his eyes went wide—  _ embarrassment, panic, surprise _ — then he blanched, eyebrows knitting up and rising, mouth falling wordlessly open—  _ fear, hurt, shame. _

The normally strong, larger-than-life Witcher suddenly looked so small and weak.

‘ _ No, no wait, that’s not what I meant _ ,’ Jaskier cried in his head.

Geralt looked as if he was about to run and hide, so Jaskier grabbed his hand to stay him and tried to explain himself. 

“I’m sorry I— don’t misunderstand me, that was amazing— I,  _ well shit _ , it was more than amazing, it was all I ever hoped for but I just,” He paused, stared back at Geralt’s face; now not as hurt but still confused and cautious. “ _...Where did that come from? _ ” 

Geralt looked down and mumbled something to the grassy ground. 

“C-come again?” Jaskier whispered, giving Geralt’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“I said I—“ Geralt rushed before clamping his mouth shut again, shaking his head. “...I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.”

‘ _...wait, what? _ ’ 

“What—what is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier frowned, pulling his hands away and crossing them over his chest. What was Geralt thinking?! Had he not meant to kiss him??  _ Had he regretted it? _

“Jaskier, no I’m,” Geralt fumbled, hands outstretched, seeking the comfort of the other man’s grip. “I should have asked first. I just really _ really _ wanted to…” He made a frustrated noise, as if the words were hard for him to get out, “ _...kiss you. _ I acted on impulse, but I should’ve—“ 

“ _ You wanted to kiss me? _ ” Jaskier whispered, letting Geralt’s hands find his own again.

“Yes,” the Witcher breathed out, as if the answer were escaping him of its own volition; freeing itself. “I have… for a long time.” 

“...Me too.” 

They drew closer again, close but…  _ wary. _ A little unsure. 

Finally Jaskier spoke up again with a quiet:

“...Why now?” 

Geralt looked at the canopy over Jaskier’s head and produced one of his infamous ‘ _ hmm _ ’s. That wasn’t exactly what the Fae was hoping for right then, so he narrowed his eyes at the other man and waited for more. 

When Geralt simply continued his silence, looking as if he was busy piecing an essay together in his brain, Jaskier grew nervous and asked another question.

“...What about Yennefer?” 

“ _ Huh? _ ” Geralt blinked a couple times at the trees before re-focusing back on him. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” Jaskier sighed in exasperation. 

Silence.

‘ _ Oh? _ ’ Jaskier thought, ‘ _ Ohhh, by the gods, he really doesn’t. _ ’ 

“You two,” He said slowly, watching Geralt’s face closely to try and spot the moment of understanding, “You and Yennefer. You said she was like a mother to Ciri… and, I’m no expert in marital affairs, but given that you’re like a father to the princess, I—“

Geralt’s eyes finally lit up in recognition and…  _ then he laughed?? _ Why the fuck was he laughing??? He released the other’s hands again, his fists clenched, arms tense at his sides. 

“Geralt, you  _ arse _ , what the fu—“

“No,  _ no _ ,” Geralt said through his laughter, “I just—  _ You think we’re together? _ ” 

“Stop laughing,” Jaskier pouted, feeling dumb and agitated. It really wasn’t that outrageous an assumption. Last he’d seen him, the White Wolf had been trailing after the sorceress like a lost puppy. Until the big argument, of course… Had that really been the final straw then? The breaking point for them? 

“Alright, I—“ Geralt rubbed a hand over his face, chuckles dying out. He sighed and brought his hand back down, revealing a soft, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. Really. That’s just not what I was expecting you to say…. I was just  _ relieved. _ No, we’re not together. Just...friends.” 

“Just friends?” Jaskier repeated. Geralt nodded. 

He was about to tell the Witcher what a fool he was and maybe kiss him again afterwards, but then Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath in; clearly preparing himself to say something more. 

Jaskier went still and waited, hoping for a very specific set of words.

“I… I’m an  _ idiot _ ,” Geralt started. “I have so many regrets. One of them is not realizing my feelings for you earlier. I’ve had them for so long I just… I didn’t—“ The Witcher paused, regaining his composure before fixing Jaskier with an intensely honest look…

“I’m in love with you.” 

‘ _ There they are, those words—the ones I needed. _ ’

“I have been,” Geralt continued, “... for a long time.” 

A beat. A quiet skip of the heart.

“Say it again.” 

“ _ Hm? _ ” Geralt questioned.

“Say it again,” Jaskier steadily repeated.

“...I’m in love with you.”

“Again,” the Fae said, drawing closer.

“...I’ve been in love with you  _ so long _ .”

“.... _ Again _ ,” Jaskier whispered against the other’s lips.

“ _ Jaskier, _ ” Geralt said his name with such reverence he wanted to scream. “ _...I love you. _ ” 

Jaskier’s eyes were wet with tears and he felt like he was falling, falling, _ falling _ —but this time into waiting arms. 

“ _ I love you, too. _ ”

Kissing Geralt for a second time was even better than the first, Jaskier thought as he hummed into the other man’s mouth. It felt more secure, more solid and safe. 

He knew now. He knew he was loved by the one he loved. Despite everything, they’d finally made it to each other’s hearts. Both spilt their souls out for the other to see, took a leap of faith and landed at the other side  _ whole _ . Whole and fully accepted; seen and loved for who there were… except—

‘ _ What he’s seeing isn’t me anymore. _ ’ 

He allowed himself to enjoy a moment more before pulling away again, remembering the other question he had that’d given him pause in the first place; the one left unanswered, the other doubt.

“But, really, Geralt…  _ Why now _ ?” Jaskier asked calmly, though his insides were still twisting wildly.  _ Love, fear, euphoria, hesitation. _ “Why… when I finally managed to fully glamour?” 

Geralt whined at the loss of contact but considered the question. He looked confused again, so Jaskier continued.

“Is it… because I look like how you remember, now? Human?” 

“Huh?” Geralt huffed, clearly abashed. “No, Jaskier, I don’t care about—“

“About how I look? Or what I am?” Jaskier interrupted. “I’m not  _ human _ anymore, Geralt.” 

“That doesn't matter—“

“But it  _ does _ matter. It matters to me,” the Fae said, words growing less calm and more rushed, “And  _ clearly _ it matters to you. Maybe subconsciously, but still— why else would you kiss me  _ now _ , if not for—“ 

“ _ It was your smile. _ ” 

Jaskier deflated. 

“My…  _ smile? _ ” 

“It was the happiest smile I’ve seen on your face since I found you again.” 

Jaskier huffed and looked away, a little grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite himself. 

“Oh, really?” 

“ _ Really. _ ” 

“How am I supposed to believe you?” 

Geralt frowned and thought for a moment… then he spoke again; determined and sure.

“If you won’t believe what I tell you…  _ then let me show you. _ ” 

Jaskier’s face turned crimson. 

“ _ S-show me— _ ?”

“Change back,” Geralt insisted, “Drop the glamour and… let me show you how much I love every part of you.” 

The air between them shifted, now clotted with heat and desire. 

“If you'd let me—if it’s okay?” Geralt asked, clearly looking for consent; the go ahead. The Fae briskly nodded, still unconvinced that Geralt hadn’t kissed him for his sudden lack of monster parts… but very willing to let the other man try to prove his claim. He’d learned to accept his changed body during his time here. Learned to love himself, find himself gorgeous again. To touch himself, feel himself, pleasure himself. But accepting that someone else could do the same—that Geralt could do the same— was a completely different matter. 

But… he so wanted it to be true; for Geralt to look at him in his real form the same way he looked at him now, while still glamoured. He was back to original size—a touch shorter than Geralt— his shirt and sash looking more like bed sheets the way they hung off him. He only needed to shrug a bit and he’d be stripped bare. The thought made him shiver. 

Jaskier pulled his White Wolf in for another kiss and hummed approvingly at the way Geralt kissed him back; there was urgency in it, need in it. 

His Witcher started walking them backwards, leading Jaskier over to who knows where; the kiss was too distracting for him to care. It was only when Geralt’s lips finally left his that he had enough thought to look around. They were next to the fire pit now, wood gathered and placed, but still unlit.

It would be truly dark soon. Dusk had already descended, washing the world around them in a warm, pink haze. 

“I want to see all of you,” Geralt whispered against his ear; softly nuzzling his nose to his temple. The Witcher then cast Igni on the pit, which caught aflame immediately. 

Jaskier smiled at the gesture. They could certainly see each other better now but… 

“You’re not the only one that can put on a light show, Witcher.” 

The Fae snapped his fingers, summoning little floating lights around them. They bobbed languidly in the air, some above them, some below them, and some at eye-level. The lights sparkled brightly, winking at them as if they were actually stars that’d dropped down from the heavens to witness what was about to take place. 

Geralt blinked and looked around them with a silent gasp. Jaskier was used to his magic, but he supposed it’d still be awhile before his power stopped surprising the other man…

His soon to be lover.

That sounded nice. 

Sounded right.

The Witcher—done with his gawking— made to kiss him again, but Jaskier stopped him, placing his index finger to the other’s lips. 

“Mmm, wait. As eager as I am for this I’d rather not fuck on the floor,” Geralt made a flustered, scandalized noise, as if hearing Jaskier say  _ ‘fuck’ _ surprised him. “Oh stop being so cute, I need to concentrate.” 

With that, he pulled his Witcher a couple paces back from the fire and eased them both down to the ground. Before Geralt could ask what he was up to, Jaskier smirked and dug his hands into the ground below with a whispered, “Watch this.”

The ground beneath them started quaking. The White Wolf stared in awe as the soil around them roiled, uprooting grass, dislodging stones; it was as if the forest floor were trying to escape something. Before Geralt could ask  _ ‘what’ _ the ground was parting for, he saw it: the orange, brown splotched top pushing through the dirt, lifting them up until the rest of its great, bulbous form was visible, fanning out all around them. 

It was a giant mushroom. 

“Omphalotus olearius…” Geralt gasped. Jaskier figured they must be rare for the other to react that way… or maybe it was just because he’d never seen one this big. 

The mushroom had a strange property that caused it to glow a light green at nightfall, but Jaskier had enjoyed them in Sídhe-Sifra more for their soft, velvety tops than anything else. They made for the most excellent naps. It’d suit their current need quite well. 

“According to Vesemir’s fungi-detection lessons, this species can be used as a stronger substitute for Sewant mushrooms in Devil’s Puffball,” the Witcher blurted out, distracted by the odd sight. After realizing what he’d said, he blushed and cleared his throat, “...But that probably isn’t important right this moment, huh?” 

“Mhm,” the Fae replied, looking pleased with his work. “I mostly just called them the  _ ‘soft glowy’ _ ones, but that sounds right.” 

Jaskier shimmied back a bit and sat upright, wiggling on the mushroom to test the surface’s give. 

“Comfy?” Geralt asked, eyes roaming over Jaskier’s body as the Fae disrobed. 

“It’ll do,” Jaskier nodded and tugged on Geralt’s shirt, briefly thanking Melitele that the Witcher had chosen to forgo his armor that morning. 

He was surprised when the other man  _ ‘tsked’ _ and gently shooed his hand away.

“First, unglamour.” 

Jaskier flushed. 

“Geralt, are you absolutely sure—“ 

The Witcher cut him off with a chaste kiss before breathing out a soft, “Please.” 

“.... Well, since you asked so nicely.” 

Jaskier took a deep breath in and watched the other man closely as he let the glamour go. He thought he’d find a glimmer of uncertainty in the White Wolf’s eyes, but discovered it was quite the opposite. As he grew into his larger form, Geralt’s pupils widened in interest, which was… promising.

“ _ Jask, _ ” the other gasped, climbing into his lap and—oh,  _ OH _ —he could feel how hard Geralt was against his thigh. He groaned as the Witcher began to shower him in kisses; lips against his neck, his collarbone, his chest. There his kisses evolved, growing more heated, open-mouthed. His Witcher’s tongue joined in, and he alternated between hungrily licking and sucking hickies into his skin. 

Jaskier's breath shuddered at the attention. It felt amazing. He wanted Geralt to feel how he felt, but, again, his reaching hand was softly  _ ‘papped’ _ away by the Witcher.

“Mmm, no… let me… please you,” Geralt mumbled between kisses, hips stuttering as he began to rut against Jaskier’s thigh. “Fuck… you’re— _ Mm _ …”

“W-what?” The Fae whispered, slowly lying flat to give the other man more access while being mindful of his wings. 

“Gorgeous,” Geralt moaned against his skin. 

“Hah, oh, so you noticed?” Jaskier replied through breathy laughter. 

Geralt merely hummed appreciatively before he moved up the large Fae’s form to nip at his ears. When the Witcher tugged on one of his horns to give himself a better angle, Jaskier gasped. It was like having his hair gently pulled, but somehow better. His tail coiled around his Witcher’s middle, pulling him closer, urging him on. The gesture seemed to work, as Geralt pulled on his horn again, this time to bring their lips together. 

This kiss was different from the rest. It was deeper, more exploratory. Then Geralt’s tongue pressed around one of Jaskier’s fangs and he whimpered into the Fae’s mouth. The other seemed to genuinely appreciate his sharper teeth, even going so far to press into them enough to prick his tongue. 

He tasted phenomenal, blood somehow richer than it should’ve been. Jaskier would’ve been content kissing like this for hours more, but his Witcher—evidently— had other ideas. 

He huffed as the other drew back, but before he could complain, Geralt’s hands dived into the fluffy down of his wings.

Jaskier yelped and arched up into the touch.

“Geralt— _ Ah! _ ” He gasped as the Witcher’s hands reached under him, trying to locate the area he’d stumbled upon the night of their reunion. 

The Fae knew exactly when Geralt found the spot, pleasure ripping through him, hot and all consuming. His wings shook as he cried out a litany of praises and curses in Fae Speech, hands clawing into the spongy  _ ‘bed’ _ below. 

Jaskier could feel as his wings’ oils seeped out, coating his feathers and Geralt’s groping hands. He shuddered and keened, gasping for air as if he were drowning. Their combined lust hung so heavily around them, he might as well have been drowning in it. 

“Mmm, G-geralt, please,” Jaskier whined, pushing the other off before the stimulation became too much. He knew he’d cum from the Witcher’s hands on his wings alone if he let the other continue. Which would probably be extraordinary, but he wanted this to last. 

Geralt looked like a starved man at a feast: eyes lidded, hungry, and desperate. It was that look that finally cast out any remaining doubt Jaskier had about the other man wanting him, just as he was— _ no _ — especially as he was now: un-glamoured, completely himself. 

He loved him like this.  _ He loved him. _

Geralt also looked as if he might start begging if Jaskier didn’t allow him to continue his ministrations. The large Fae bit his lower lip—the corners of his mouth drawn up in smirk as he huffed through his nose—and coyly redirected the other’s hands to his groin, now wet and ever so softly glowing. 

“Fuck, Jask,” The Witcher blinked at the sight. “ _... Can I…? _ ” 

Jaskier rumbled in affirmation, using his tail to tug Geralt’s face closer to his crotch. The Witcher needed no further coaxing and immediately laved his tongue against the puffy lips of Jaskier’s slit. 

It felt  _ sinfully _ good, the way Geralt sucked and licked, greedily tasting him, desperate for more. Jaskier had to stop his hips from canting up into the other man’s face as he felt his tongue dip inside him, grazing the head of his still-sheathed cock. A few licks more and his length began to peak through his lips, steadily rising up against Geralt’s cheek, leaving a sticky trail of gold on his face. He looked marvelous like that, with Jaskier’s huge cock pressed against him. When it was completely out, it stood tall, far above Geralt’s head with his mouth still pressed to Jaskier’s groin. 

He’d known his dick was proportional to the rest of him—which now meant  _ ‘larger than life’ _ —but seeing it next to Geralt’s face really made him realize just how fucking  _ big _ he really was. If his size deterred the Witcher, he certainly didn’t show it. Geralt instead reacted by groaning his approval against the base of his shaft. The vibration of the low sound sent a prickling wave of pleasure that traveled all the way up Jaskier’s spine and made him squirm, his legs kicking out, hooves angled to the now starry sky. 

The Witcher pressed his nose to the junction of Jaskier’s weeping lips and the thick base of his cock and breathed him in deeply, inhaling the Fae’s scent as much as he could and shuddering in what looked like ecstasy. He watched as his Witcher then proceeded to trail wet, languid kisses up his ribbed length, all the way to his dick’s ruddy head, already dripping with golden precome. He didn’t think Geralt could look any more delicious: face shimmering, marked by Jaskier’s own slick, cheeks flushed, mouth hung open and clearly salivating. However, Geralt quickly proved him wrong by greedily lapping up the glowing fluid dribbling from Jaskier’s tip. The way he licked him, tasted him,  _ savored _ him— it was singlehandedly the sexiest thing the Fae had ever witnessed. 

Jaskier was panting now, chest heaving up and down, tail releasing the other man to thump and curl and  _ twitch _ at his side. The Witcher grasped his hips with a bruising force, fingernails digging into his flesh as they tried to find sufficient purchase, hands still slippery with Jaskier’s preening oil. He’d never had it anywhere besides his own feathers and hands, but— _ Sweet Melitele _ — his oil felt devine on the tingling, sensitive skin of his hips, now clawed red and raw by the hands of his needy little Witcher. Once satisfied with his grip, Geralt eagerly slipped his mouth over Jaskier’s dick— barely taking half of the massive length before its head hit the back of his throat—and moaned around him, eyes already tearing up from the strain. 

“Geralt— _ aH _ —your mouth— _ Oh goDs _ —you’re good at this!” 

Jaskier grabbed a handful of the Witcher’s hair and tugged, delighting at the absolutely beautiful little desperate whimper the other made in response. 

Geralt slowly bobbed up and down Jaskier’s length, dragging his tongue over the underside with each upward pull. The Fae, slack-jawed in amazement and pleasure, watched his ravenous Witcher work. He marveled at the way the White Wolf’s cheeks hollowed out and loosened as his head moved up and down and up and down and— _ Fuck _ — his mouth was so unbelievably  _ perfect. _ He’d never been sucked off this good; he wasn’t sure if Geralt’s skill was due to practice, the sheer desperation to make Jaskier feel good, or—even more enthralling— his own damn near insatiable  _ need _ ; the desire to stretch his throat raw around Jaskier’s monstrously huge cock. 

On the next upward motion, Geralt pulled his lips off of Jaskier’s cock with a lovely wet  _ ‘pop’. _

“Your dick,” the Witcher groaned out, voice sounding scratchy and used, “Hhhm, It’s— _ mmmm _ ” he hummed against the head of his cock, looking as if his lust-fogged brain was working overtime to produce a coherent sentence.

“What is it, love?” Jaskier shakily whispered. 

“Hmmm…. S’glowin’.”

Jaskier managed a short, breathy laugh before replying:

“Yeah, it does that.” 

Geralt haltingly hummed again before pressing his face against the insides of Jaskier’s large, furry thighs, nibbling at the tender flesh there. His teeth were not as sharp as Jaskier’s own, but his canines—longer than the average human’s— still scraped and pricked gloriously against him. He switched from merely nipping to full on _ biting, _ licking each blooming bruise as he went. Jaskier’s breath hitched with every sharp pinch, and shudderingly sighed with each affectionate lick. His soft, pleasured noises seemed to please Geralt, whose hips began to stutter against the open air, fruitlessly seeking friction to relieve his own aching length, still trapped in too-tight trousers. 

His Witcher kept this up for a while, and, though it felt amazing, Jaskier’s dick was throbbing and very much in need of attention. 

“ _ Mmm, _ you t-tease,” the Fae mewled. “Geralt— _ hhhHh _ — I need you back on me nowW— _ Ah! _ This. Instant.” 

Jaskier punctuated his last word by nudging the Witcher’s plump little ass forward with the heel of one of his hooves, effectively shoving Geralt’s face back onto his massive length. 

His lovely, merciless Witcher’s supple, supplicating lips—slightly parted— dragged up his dick, puffing little gusts of cool air along his sensitive ridges. 

_ ‘The awful little tease.’ _

Jaskier growled his impatience, a deep and rumbling sound, somehow more needy than threatening, but still profoundly carnal all the same. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Geralt gasped; a wickedly sharp intake, as if he’d been splashed with ice-cold water. “Jask— _ again _ — do that again,” the other man rasped, already taking the leaking cock before him back into his mouth and resuming his task with renewed fervor. 

_ Wait… _ did he mean… the growling?  _ Growl _ again? 

_ Gods, _ Jaskier was learning so many wonderful, interesting things about his little Wolf tonight.

_ ‘Mmm, I wonderrrr…’ _

“ _ Geralt, _ ” the Fae growled out, “Be a  _ good boy _ and make me  _ cum. _ ” 

The Witcher  _ sobbed _ around his cock, eyes screwing shut as his body shook. Then he stilled, for a brief moment; body drawn taut as a bowstring. 

...Had he?

Jaskier quickly scented the air. 

_ He had. _

_ ‘Sweet Melitele, he’s so fucking perfect,’ _ Jaskier thought with a rapturous moan. 

Geralt shivered, blinked a few times, then diligently got back to work. 

He moved much faster than before, and Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up to meet him this time. Soon enough, the Fae felt the heat in his belly coalesce, tightening like a loaded spring. 

He wanted to see it.

Jaskier shakily propped himself up, wings fluttering in suspense. 

“Geralt, I’m—  _ aH _ — M’gonna—“ He bit out in warning, giving the Witcher ample time to remove himself from his cock; its golden glow now pulsing increasingly brighter.

Surprising him for what seemed like the millionth time that night, Geralt moaned and, instead of retreating, only took him in  _ deeper. _

That sent him over the edge. 

Jaskier threw his head back and  _ roared, _ vision blinking black and white with the intensity of his orgasm. 

He felt alight; skin tingling, everything bright. It took a couple seconds but eventually he blinked his eyes back into focus, immediately fixing his gaze back on Geralt.

Jaskier was greeted with the breathtaking vision that was his Witcher blissed and— _ amazingly _ — still swallowing down his cum, glowing with a radiance strong enough to light Geralt’s throat up from within. He hadn’t remembered coming that hard before, or in such a gratuitous amount. Even with Geralt trying his damnedest to clear him of every last drop, dribbles of gold still spilled over, rolling down his chin. As intoxicating as the sight was, the stimulation was quickly becoming too much. He whimpered for the other to release him, tail twitching against his Wolf’s side, attempting to tickle him away. Geralt—though with visible reluctance— finally withdrew, licking at the corners of his mouth as if he hadn’t had nearly enough. 

“Mmm, cm’here,” Jaskier drawled as he wrapped his tail back around Geralt’s torso to pull him in for a sloppy kiss. The Witcher melted against him, boneless and content, still hazy from his own afterglow. Jaskier realized he was tasting himself in Geralt’s mouth and— _ gods _ — somehow he tasted even better like that. 

He smirked against the other’s lips with an amused huff, “Not bad, hm?” 

“ _ Hhhmm, _ ” Geralt all but purred in contemplation. “Your cum or the sex?” 

“Uhhh, both?” 

“Not bad,” Geralt laughed.

“ _ Ohh hoho _ —well then! Says the man who came untouched,” Jaskier gwuffed dramatically. “What  _ ardent _ praise from his Witcher,” He ignored Geralt’s attempts to shut him up via kissing and continued to speak through the sweet assault on his lips, “Let it be— _ mmf _ — known that I, Jaskier, am not— _ pfFstop _ — am  _ ‘Not Bad’ _ in bed, according to the— _ mmM _ —the ever eloquent White Wolf!” 

“Mm,” Geralt mused, pulling away only to plop his head down on Jaskier’s chest, angling himself so he could still look up at the large Fae’s face. “...mushroom.” 

“Pardon?” 

“I think you mean,  _ ‘On mushroom’. _ S’not a bed.” 

Jaskier laughed so hard he snorted, “At least it’s not a stuffed unicorn.” 

His laughter turned to gidy little giggles as Geralt groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fuckk, I hate that I told you that.” 

“Ahh, but you tell me  _ everything _ in time.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.

“Besides, I simply laid back and enjoyed the ride this time, you can’t really say how I am  _ ‘in bed’ _ yet—ok, yes _ mushroom _ , I know, thank you,” Jaskier rushed over Geralt’s soft chuckling. “So, your verdict isn’t truly and properly valid until I get to show you what I can do when a stubborn, lascivious Witcher isn’t batting away my hand everytime I try to touch him and his magnificent ass.” 

“ _ ‘This time’. _ Implying there’s a next time.”

“Thousands upon  _ thousands _ of next times, guaranteed.” 

Geralt hummed and nuzzled his face against Jaskier’s fuzzy, broad chest. For a moment it was silent, the two of them just soaking in the moment. 

“I lied,” Geralt rumbled, sounding pleased with himself; like he had some juicy, childish secret.

“About what?” Jaskier replied, unworried. 

“Hands on me or not, that was still the best orgasm I’ve had in a decade. It was amazing, not just  _ ‘not bad’ _ ,” the Wolf grinned, “ _ You’re _ amazing.” 

“Oh.  _ Oh, _ I see…” Jaskier tried not to get emotional, but found himself blinking away rogue tears from his eyes anyways. Geralt’s hand softly brushed them from his cheek, expression still tender, soft…  _ and loving. _

“I, uh,” Jaskier looked up and sniffled purposefully, trying to drive off the happy tears. He released a breathy little, amused  _ ‘woo!’ _ sound as he succeeded in blinking away most of the remaining wetness clouding his vision. “I guess you really meant it then, huh? You  _ do _ love me like this.”

“Mmm...I love you,  _ period _ . No matter what. In every form.” Geralt hummed and pressed a little kiss to Jaskier’s chest. “But, this form in particular, _ fuck _ ,” he cursed with feeling, almost reverently, “This whole time—every second in your presence— I’ve had to restrain myself from climbing you like a goddamn tree.”

“ _ Geralt! _ ” Jaskier gasped, both in happiness and astonishment in equal measure. 

“It’s true, you’re  _ gorgeous _ —fucking irresistible. Sure you aren’t an incubus of some sort? I mean, the hooves fit.” 

“ _ Geralttt _ ,” Jaskier chided through laughter.

“The  _ horns _ too—“ 

“Geralt!” 

“I’m just saying,” Geralt surrendered, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes; deep valleys of mirth. 

“ _ Pfff _ , gods...the horns do something for you?” 

“Mm, and the wings, and the tail, and the fangs, and the—“

“Ok, _ I get it _ , I get it,” Jaskier smiled and ran a hand through Geralt’s sweat dampened hair. “I love you, too. Every part of you.” 

Jaskier twirled a lock of his White Wolf’s hair between his fingers as he spoke, “Every snowy strand of hair, every sunny burst of gold in your eyes, every single beautiful battle scar….. _ everything.” _

The Fae gently tipped his Witcher’s head up by the chin with his free hand, locking eyes with him and sighing at the pure affection he found there. 

…

“....Am I still glowing?” Geralt asked. 

“Like you swallowed a giant firefly.” 

They laughed together for a while before once more returning to comfortable silence. Jaskier wrapped his wings like a feathery blanket around Geralt’s smaller form, secretly thrilled that his Witcher could lay atop him like that. 

Geralt’s eyelids eventually began to droop and flutter, obviously spent from all the confessions, emotions and, of course, their most recent activity. 

“Speaking of your lovely scars,” Jaskier said, words blurring a bit at the ends as he also felt sleep fast approaching. “Where’d you get this new one?” He asked, moving the hand from Geralt’s chin to delicately stroke along the scar over his left eye. 

“ _ Hmm _ . Was wondering when you’d ask,” Geralt hummed with a smile, finally letting his eyes close. 

“Well…” Jaskier whispered. “... didn’t want to be rude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooo! A rare spicy chapter appears! 🔥  
> Health related issues continue to slow my update schedule—apologies for that— but I'm powering through as best I can! ❤️ Thank you for sticking with me!   
> I'm hoping to finish some art WIPS soon, so keep a look out for those!


	18. Fēstōrum

“Alrighty, here we go, Sir Witcher,” Julep exclaimed as she handed over the neatly wrapped parcel. “All tailored and ready for Midsummer. Should fit your friend like a _dream_ now!” 

“Thanks,” Geralt nodded as he accepted the package, weighty in his hands but not overly so. “You didn’t have to wrap it so nicely.” 

“Oh, but it’s for festival! Has to be a little special, hm? Now, I know you said your friend is busy, but you must tell him that he is obligated to stop by tomorrow and let me know how he likes it himself,” the Tailor said firmly as she walked her guest to the door.

“We’ll make sure to find you before his performance.”

“Even better! Now, off you go! The faster you get this to your friend, the faster he can start loving it! _Shoo shoo_ , my dear,” she said with a wave and an excited little smile. 

Geralt adjusted his hold on the package so that it fit comfortably in his arms with the other two parcels: a smaller one wrapped in cloth, and a thin wooden box containing the work of a traveling cobbler. Once satisfied with his grip, he wished her a good Midsummer’s Eve and departed with a grateful sort of _‘nod’_ gesture, figuring it was best not to risk a wave of his own with his hands so full. Julep— whose real name was apparently Justyna— had been busy for months in preparation for tomorrow’s festival, which was wonderful for a certain bardic Fae in need of new clothes. Running around in a shirt many sizes too big, and without pants to boot, would be both suspicious and, as Jaskier had put it, _‘not at all stylish’_. 

A couple days ago, the winged bard had returned from a morning snoop on the town practically begging Geralt to help measure him for an outfit that Justyna had on display in her shoppe window. He’d barely even waited for Geralt to reply before handing him the cloth measures he’d _‘borrowed’_ and assuming an expectant pose; holding still, arms outstretched in his smaller, glamoured form. 

How could he say no? The answer was: he couldn’t. He wouldn’t want to anyways. Geralt would give anything and everything Jaskier desired, and if he wanted some fancy festival clothes for his first performance in ages, by Melitele, he was gonna get them. 

Justyna hadn’t questioned the Witcher when he’d brought over the measurements with the simple explanation that his bard friend was simply _‘busy’_ and couldn’t order the clothes himself. He thought most would question why a big scary Witcher like himself would run such a mundane errand for a friend. Then again, this town was weird, and Justyna was truly as sweet as honeyed fig. She’d finished the alterations in record time, visibly excited to sell her most intricate piece. Jaskier’s taste remained as eccentric as ever, and Geralt had to admit, as much as he hated wearing finery himself, he loved the way Jaskier looked in it. 

The coin that Jaskier’d given him for the outfit—a memento from one _‘stupidly-dressed, arsehole trader’_ , the smirking Fae had explained—covered most of the costs; including tailoring, commission on short notice, and the extravagant piece itself. Jaskier had called it his _‘little stash’_ , which, in truth, was greatly downplaying the amount, as the Witcher found the Fae’s savings to be easily triple what he currently carried in his own pocket. When Geralt pointed out how misleading it’d been for him to describe the stowed coin as _‘little’_ , Jaskier merely laughed and repeated that the trader had been _‘an arsehole’_ , but—thankfully— _‘a rich arsehole’_. 

The Witcher happily paid the remaining charge, suddenly grateful for the boring contracts he’d taken prior to finding his bard. As a surprise, he’d also picked up some kohl from a trader visiting Luibh, looking to make a profit selling makeups for the coming festival. He’d seen Jaskier wear it under his eyes once at a ball he’d dragged him along to, and the Witcher had remembered it as the highlight of his evening. The bard’s blue eyes had gleamed like glittery gems against the contrast of the dark makeup. So, the kohl was a gift, but Geralt wasn’t _entirely_ sure whether it was more for Jaskier or himself.

Surely, it’d please the bard either way, and he adored it when Jaskier smiled. Lucky for him, the Fae had been sharing his smile more often. In fact, Geralt had noted a shift in Jaskier’s behavior as of late. Before he’d confessed his feelings for the Fae, Jaskier had been… less animated than he’d remembered. He was still talkative, still witty, still every bit himself, but _muffled_ ; as if something were stopping him from fully relaxing. After the night they shared atop the _Omphalotus olearius_ , whatever had been stressing his bard seemed to have disappeared. Geralt knew it had to do with his confession, of course, he’d felt worlds better after that too, but he guessed it might also have something to do with what they _did_ atop the aforementioned mushroom. 

Before that day, the sexual tension between them had been so intense that he felt the very air might _snap_ and thunder if he so much as glanced at Jaskier the wrong way… or the right way. Whatever, the point was, it was a lot, and for many reasons. The main reason, of course, was that it was Jaskier, and he was—and had been—in love with Jaskier for far longer than he himself had even known. Another reason, and an unsurprising one at that, was that Jaskier was a handsome, _handsome_ man. Even before his change, Geralt had found him ethereally gorgeous, just hadn’t the gumption, courage or thought to tell him as much. A strictly Witcher reason—he assumed, at least—was because of Jaskier’s scent. He’d always taken comfort in smelling Jaskier on him; meant the other man was safe, close, with him. Once they’d reunited, he found the Fae’s scent not only comforted him a thousand times more than it ever had before— most likely due to the relief over realizing he wasn’t dead—but also _excited_ him. 

Jaskier’s natural musk was undeniably enhanced in his new form; as if he was more _him_ , somehow. Whatever the reason, it drove Geralt’s senses crazy. So much so that Geralt found it impossible to restrain himself from cuddling up close to properly soak the scent in their first night back together, and every night after.

All these reasons made sense. All of them were normal, reasonable reasons. 

_His last reason?_

Less so, maybe, at least for everyday… _human_ standards. Or, perhaps not? He supposed humans could be rather kinky, so it was possible his interest wasn’t as abnormal as he assumed. Even if it was weird, that was fine. _More than fine._ Geralt was far from bothered by it, and he knew his smart, observant lover had absolutely caught on to it by now. 

Geralt was obsessed with the sheer _size_ and _power_ of Jaskier. With the way the simple tug of his tail could move Geralt entirely, how his gorgeous, immense wings could envelop him completely, how his own hands looked tiny within Jaskier’s large, clawed ones, how big and sharp Jaskier’s teeth felt as he’d explored them with his tongue, and, well— _fuck_ —how goddamn _HUGE_ his cock was. It was _sinfully_ big. Geralt was all too eager to get his mouth back on it—among other things—but had dutifully respected Jaskier’s wish to focus on his practice and preparation of songs for the coming Festival. However, just thinking about all he wanted to do with him after Midsummer, it was—well, it was downright dangerous is what it was. Geralt had to be careful not to get hard simply from the thought of it… 

Which reminded him, he was very much still in Luibhtorrach, in the presence of many village folk who might not appreciate the sight of a rock hard Witcher strolling through the town’s square. Was best he just… hurry back. 

He picked up his pace as he made his way through the busy town, now bustling with festival preparations, and over to the forest’s tree line to make his way back to Jaskier’s little homestead. Before he left, he turned to look the town over and thought about how beautiful and vibrant it looked, even from a distance.

All the doing of his beloved bard. 

——

“—And, as Samhradh-Arinn’s loyal ambassador, I can guarantee his yearly return and continued vigil over Luibh, even from the far reaches to which he must now travel. As we have all witnessed, day after day, our beloved watcher has done much good here. We must wish him well as he journeys off to help others in need. He has promised to keep an ear open for our voices, prayers and pleas. If ever you need our lord of the forest, simply pluck an open bloom and call out, he will hear you….. and also he said mom should definitely let me climb the neighbors’ really cool, super tall tree—the one that looks like it has long, creepy fingers for branches. It’s fine, I won’t get hurt! I’m under a magical, godly protection spell thingy…. The end. Thank you,” Liatris finished with a dramatic bow from atop her impromptu log-stage and held her pose for a couple seconds as Jaskier clapped and Jasio burred. Roach merely flicked her tail; an indecisive response. 

Together, they’d been working on Lia’s little speech for Midaëte. It was important to him that the town know he wasn’t abandoning them. They’d saved him just as much as he’d saved them, and it would crush him to think he’d lose their faith in any way by leaving. So he’d asked Lia to help relay the message, and she’d enthusiastically agreed.

Of course, he’d tried to keep it simple, but he was a poet! An _artist!_ It got a little out of hand, maybe a little performative and a touch too praise-y on Lia’s part; she insisted on the honorifics, said it made the speech _‘fancy’._ Flowery embellishments aside, it’d get his message across all the same. Plus, playing audience meant he got to take a break from rehearsing for tomorrow. 

“How was I that time, Mr. Jaskier?” Lia asked as she hopped down from the log to plop onto his lap. 

“Even better than the last seven times, my little lady!” He grinned, ruffling her hair. “Though maybe we’ll skip the tree thing, _hm_? We don’t want to spook the airs out of your mother.” 

“ _Aaaaawwwww,_ ” Lia pouted, though only briefly as it seemed she had another idea to spare. “Could you take me flying sometime instead? Way way _wayyyyyYYY_ up high?” 

Jaskier had to laugh. The kid was definitely of the adventurous type, that much was certain. He pretended to really think about it, pursing his lips and humming, tapping his chin, scratching the top of his head.

“Mr. Jaskierrrr _rrrrrrr_ —“

“Hhmmm—Alright, alright! I’m sure we can schedule a little flight in before I leave. As long as my lovely passenger behaves, that is.”

“I will, I will! _Oh, thank you!!_ ” Lea squealed, throwing her arms about Jaskier’s middle, arms barely reaching either side of him.

The large Fae smiled down at the happy little flower and sighed. He’d definitely miss this. Miss his dear Lia’s joy, Buidhe’s companionship—all of Luibhtorrach, really. But he also missed the freedom of traveling the continent, missed performing in all manner of tavern, ballroom and stage. And, of course, Geralt— he’d missed his beautiful White Wolf most of all! He had to go, it was what his _heart_ wanted. Even so, he doubted he could bear to part with them if he wasn’t certain that he could return each summer. But with that settled as it was, there was truly nothing holding him back. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to cry when it was finally time to say goodbye—oh no—he was definitely, _absolutely_ going to cry. 

Geralt’s scent on the wind interrupted his bittersweet thoughts and he trilled, a little happy sound. 

“He back?” Lia asked, pulling back from the hug to peer around the Fae as best she could. 

“Mm, soon, he’s close,” Jaskier lifted her from his lap and set her down on the grass. 

Lia gasped excitedly, “Your new clothes! Are we going to have a fashion show?” 

“ _Oh_ , and let you see me in my festus outfit before my big performance? _Blasphemy_ , I won’t have it, my dear,” Jaskier crooned, throwing a dramatic hand over his forehead as if the mere thought alone was enough to make him faint. He could tell Lia was about to protest, so he threw on his best puppy face; batting lashes and quivering lip included. Lia giggled and relented with a little mock sigh.

“Okay, _okayyy!_ I’ll go help dad with the decorations, I guess.”

“Ah, how thoughtful of you,” Jaskier bent down low and rewarded her with a little kiss on the forehead, which had Liatris giggling again. She returned the kiss with five of her own; three on his right cheek and two on his left. 

Jaskier waved happily as she chirped her goodbyes and ran off to take whatever new path she’d charted back home. 

He returned to his lute for a bit, just to give his hands something to do while he waited. Soon enough, though, Geralt appeared through the trees, arms full of goodies and face alight with anticipation. 

——

The summer air high above Luibhtorrach felt like warm, soothing waves buffeting against his wings. Down below, the townspeople were busy passing a couple torches around to light the many festival fire pits they’d set up during the day. It was nearing dusk, and the festivities were finally shifting into a more rambunctious party scene. The prayer and other respectful forms of celebration already finished by the early afternoon. 

The Fae would be making his entrance soon, not as Samhradh-Arinn—the Forest God of Luibh— but as Jaskier the Bard. The performer. The entertainer. The mysterious companion of the visiting Witcher, who’d been ‘ _too busy to introduce himself earlier’_.

He had, indeed, been very busy that day. Mostly with improving the town’s mainly cloth and paper decorations with the living sort: flower petals scattered about newly cobbled paths, full, vibrant blooms floating in the village fountain, flowering vines weaving patterns along the sides of houses, towering stalks rising up to where the banners waved, tipped with—oh, what was it? Ah, yes— _more flowers._ Liatris would be delighted.

Flowers for flowers. 

All that was left for now was the enchantment he’d planned. Once cast, he could go glamour, pull on his outfit, re-apply his eye makeup—Geralt had better taste than he’d previously thought— fix his wind-mussed hair and then… walk right into town, straight into his people’s gaze. 

‘ _As Jaskier,’_ he reminded himself. 

He was nervous, of course he was—this was his first appearance back into the public eye as _human_ . What if he slipped up? What if his tail slipped out, or his horns, or claws? The great Oxenfurt-taught bard performing one of his renowned classics, when suddenly his hands morph into talons and clip his lute strings with a horrid _twang_! 

The stares he’d surely draw; the judgement, the mockery. 

But…

That wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. He had a firm hold on his glamour now, and, even if it somehow wavered, he knew these people. The people of Luibhtorrach were kind, loving, welcoming, accepting. They were far more likely to embrace him than shun him upon learning his secret; he knew that. 

Nonetheless, his mind was anxious. It was a big step—a leap even—but he’d take it with his Wolf by his side. 

It’d be okay.

Jaskier took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth with a calming _‘haah’_. He was simply wasting time at this point. The antsy Fae had been gliding in the same pattern overhead for about 20 minutes now, just worrying, thinking, procrastinating. 

“Alright,” he sighed, breaking his glide so he could hover, powerful wings steadily beating to keep him aloft. “ _Show time…_ ” 

Jaskier closed his eyes and lifted his hands, palms down, fingers splayed. Starting from the tips of his claws he felt a _tingle_ that spread up through his arms and straight through the rest of him. He shivered. The enchantment was an intense one, but rather than the strain he’d expected, he was experiencing a sort of thrill. It was… exhilarating.

_‘I_ **_am_ ** _more powerful during Midaëte,’_ he thought, mid-spell, _‘Last year was no fluke.’_

He still had no idea what that meant, and doubted that Geralt would either, but he figured he’d ask him all the same. Perhaps tonight, after all the merriment was done. Or maybe tomorrow? No matter, it wasn’t urgent; the discussion could wait.

Jaskier spoke a string of words in Fae tongue: _‘flowers’, ‘voices’, ‘reach’, ‘heard’, ‘answer’, ‘promise’._ He held his concentration until he finally felt his words fall upon all the flora in Luibhtorrach; every closed bud, every open bloom, every seed in every pistil, every single flower that there was and ever would be. As the spell settled he felt himself practically glow with pride—maybe also literally? Could just be the tint of dusk against his skin, but— _gods_ —he felt as lighted as a star. 

“Then a star I shall be!” The Fae trilled and flipped in the air with a victorious _‘whoop’_. After a few more aerial summersaults, Jaskier turned back to the direction of his little clearing. He angled himself, tucked his wings and started the diving descent back down. 

This was going to be an amazing night. 

——

Jaskier had arrived _‘fashionably late’_ —the Fae’s words, not his—but Geralt thought his entrance was perfect all the same. Mostly because the first thing Jaskier did upon entering town square was skip up to where the Witcher sat—chatting with Danika about Luibh’s Midsummer traditions— sweetly kiss him on the cheek, and whisper, _‘You look lovely, my dear Witcher’._ Geralt had floundered for a second, brain stuttering as he tried to process their sudden transition to the _‘casually affectionate’_ stage of their relationship. After blinking the surprise away, he looked over to see Jaskier greeting a confused, yet jovial, Danika with a friendly hug. 

It occurred to him then that Jaskier was probably only now getting to interact firsthand with most of the people he’d watched over for so long. They saw him as _‘Jaskier the famous bard’_ that Geralt had invited to perform during their festival, while Jaskier saw them as… _home._ Another family, in a way. Geralt couldn’t imagine the emotions his bard must be experiencing. 

He got up and trailed behind his bard as the other man made his rounds greeting—quite literally—every single villager, and their guests as well. Every so often Jaskier would glance back and give him a nervous but happy little smile. He returned each with a warm grin of his own, trying to reassure him as much as he could without encroaching on his many introductions. 

A few, pleasantly ale-buzzed party goers complimented his outfit as he followed the bard around; accepting all their compliments was a difficult, awkward task, but so much better than being spat at. He had Justyna to thank for all the nice words. 

Yesterday, when they’d opened Jaskier’s parcel, the two of them were _very_ surprised to find an extra outfit folded under the first. It was a pretty, yet— thankfully— unostentatious outfit. Reasonable, humble, but still very nicely made. A soft, cotton shirt dyed a light, dusty-green, with simple flower and vine patterns embroidered around the open collar in a sweet, sunflower yellow thread. The pants looked very much like the pair he usually wore with his armor. They were high waisted, with a trail of five buttons down the front. Though, unlike his own pants, the buttons were polished copper with golden rims and the material was a weirdly textured, deep chestnut brown fabric, that Jaskier identified, with a gasp, as _‘chenille’_ . They were comfy, and Geralt had to admit he appreciated the soft, beveled material of the pants. The outfit was certainly _brighter_ than he was accustomed to, but it _‘complimented his complexion’_ , as Lambert might’ve said had he been there, and it all fit him perfectly. 

So thanks to Justyna’s impressive skill—it occurred to him that she must’ve determined his measurements by eye to have done this— and incredible kindness, Geralt had festival clothing… and he felt good in them. So good that he actually sort of believed that the compliments he was receiving were genuine, not just polite niceties. 

Geralt still found the people of Luibh odd, but… he’d also grown fond of them. He’d lowered his guard significantly in the time he’d spent around them, and they’d graciously welcomed him. They never went out of their way to alienate him, the only comments on his appearance made by curious, well-meaning children. The acceptance was… startling… but in a good way. A _refreshing_ way. Geralt wanted to show his thanks so much that he’d offered to help prepare for Midaëte, something he never thought he’d do. 

Earlier on in the day, Geralt had helped erect a small, wooden platform stage for Jaskier’s performance next to the fountain, the square’s centerpiece. It’d been constructed quickly, out of spare planks and scrap wood, but the town’s children—Luibh’s self appointed festival artists—had taken it upon themselves to paint all around the stage’s sides with Zalipie style flowers. It reminded Geralt of the floral murals that adorned the homes outside of Novigrad, along Glory and Portside Gate. 

Liatris, of course, appeared to be a _‘head designer’_ of sorts, and had encouraged her fellow painters to use as many bright colors as they possibly could. She knew Jaskier well, after all. 

The bardic Fae had been overwhelmed— to put it lightly— when he first saw the stage, eyes growing damp and shakily laughing to keep the tears at bay. Liatris had been at his side with a handkerchief in a hurry, reminding him that he _‘musn’t smear the pretty eye makeup’_ Geralt had bought. The weepy bard had gently blotted his eyes with the small, lacey, white cloth, given her a big hug as thanks, and then stood up with a flourish, stating that he must give Lia _‘a proper fashion show’_.

Most of the other children and a few adults gathered as Jaskier strutted and turned dramatically, using his lute as more of a prop for posing than an instrument. His hair—which he’d managed to glamour into a wavy, shoulder length style—bounced and flipped as he struck a playful, final pose. Justyna clapped loudest after he’d finished and escorted the blushing bard over to a table—Danika had moved most of the tavern’s furniture outside for the day— to get an _‘Official Review’_ out of him. Geralt didn’t listen in, but he was pretty sure Justnya was getting the best feedback of her career based on her expression. 

She most definitely deserved it. The Witcher wasn’t a great judge of fashion—Lambert had a keener eye than he or Eskel when it came to _‘frippery’_ — but he knew when Jaskier looked good in something, and, _damn_ , did he look _good_. 

The outfit reminded the Witcher of the one he’d first seen Jaskier in, when they’d met in Posada. The color scheme relied more on purple than blue, though, with accents of pink, navy, and a soft, robin’s egg shade. His sleeves were sectioned in dainty petal shapes, edges bordered by velvety cord. The shoulders were a tad puffier than his Posada doublet, and their folded pleats flashed a light lavender when he turned just so. Jaskier’s cuffs ended in white, lacey frills that fluttered hypnotically with each flowy hand gesture—one of his favorite ways to emote. His doublet’s middle was utterly covered in a delicate, blue vine pattern, and it opened in the front to show off the thin white blouse that he wore underneath. Jaskier had opted to only do up the last two pearly buttons on his doublet; cinched to meet his high waisted pants in a scrumptious way that drew Geralt’s eye. The pants were the simplest part of the outfit: predominantly the same wine-purple as his doublet, the core color of the piece. They tapered off into his high leather boots, which were colored a deep, reddish brown; a perfect match that grounded the rest of the look. 

Jaskier fit in perfectly with his surroundings, like he belonged there as an integral part of the festival; a pure delight to behold. 

The small band of traveling musicians that’d taken a break to mingle rejoined near the stage and readied their instruments. At the very first note strummed, Geralt felt a tug at his arm and turned to see Jaskier sporting a full-faced grin. Normally, the Witcher wouldn’t dare accept an offer to dance but… Jaskier was _glowing._ How could he refuse? 

They slipped in among the other dancing people; some couples, some groups of friends or families. Geralt was awestruck at the joy he saw there. Children squealing and cheering atop their parent’s shoulders, adults of all ages spinning playfully, older folk to the sides, laps full of happy grandchildren, heads thrown back in hearty laughter. At one point, the young elf—Eraim, Liatris’ brother, as Jaskier had told him earlier— jumped into the dancing circle to throw flower garlands over every other person. He’d expected Eraim to toss one over Jaskier’s shoulders, but the people of Luibhtorrach had a funny way of flipping the Witcher’s expectations. Geralt laughed in disbelief as Eraim flung one around his neck instead. 

After that, he found he couldn’t stop smiling. 

He felt light as they danced. Jaskier was—unsurprisingly—elegant and practiced, but he slowed to match Geralt every time the Witcher stumbled, which he did quite often. Even with his two left feet, Geralt had to admit, he was having an amazing time. 

He could’ve kept on dancing for the rest of the night, but, eventually it was Jaskier’s turn to take the stage. 

——

Jaskier had just finished singing _‘Toss a Coin’_ for the second time— upon ardent request—and, based on the many happy faces he saw beaming back at him, figured things were going rather well. He was finally performing again, finally back doing what he loved, what he was made for. He could finally call himself a bard again, just as he promised himself all that time ago. It was perfect—it was everything he’d dreamed it be—yet, he was a little nervous to play his next song, the new one. 

He’d worked on it tirelessly, laboring over every lyric, every note. At least five previous versions had been scrapped before he settled on this one, and—though he believed very strongly in his skill, his musical mastery—he had no idea how the people of Luibh would react to hearing their own story in song. Well, _their_ story meaning his _and_ theirs combined. He wanted to thank them all, and since he couldn’t as Samhradh-Arinn, he’d do so as Jaskier, the White Wolf’s Bard. 

He glanced to the right, where Geralt was seated at a table in the little audience, sipping from a mug of ale and watching Jaskier with a poorly repressed grin. He was… so _gorgeous._ The warm, flickering glow of the many festival fire pits around them played against his white hair, illuminating it in a way that made the Witcher look downright magical. The yellow embroidery on his shirt made Geralt’s cat-like eyes stand out; they seemed even brighter, even lovelier. And the flowers draped around his shoulders, oh gods, they likened him to a forest prince of some sort, so utterly enchanting. Geralt gave him a little nod, a subtle yet very endearing show of encouragement; a small gesture that said _‘I’m here for you, you’ve got this’._ It was just what Jaskier needed. 

“I haven’t a name for this one yet,” he started, readjusting the strap of his lute. “It’s new, you see, very new. I, uh… started working on it after learning your story,” he paced the stage as he spoke, feeling fidgety, “About all that happened here—or at least what I could gather from gossip and… other intel.”

A few in the audience giggled and gave him supportive hand gestures meant to urge him on. 

“Well, in any case, I do hope you like it,” he finished. 

This was it. 

Time to shine. 

Jaskier took a deep breathe in, flexed his hand over his lute strings, and then… he began to sing. 

_“Lean in, draw close,_

_The tale I tell shan’t be morose,_

_No, ‘tis a tale of pure delight,_

_One to stir mind’s appetite._

_So, lean in, gather near,_

_Our story starts with sounds of cheer.”_

A few of the younger audience members took Jaskier’s lyrics to heart and shuffled up closer to the stage with wide, dreamy eyes. How adorable.

_“A startled deer does clapping hear,_

_He glances up, mind full of fear,_

_But finds relief in figure yonder,_

_Whose appearance he must ponder._

_Enter in our heroine, naught but a child,_

_Youthful, wild,_

_Far from mild,_

_And, clearly brave, for then she smiled._

_They talked some time,_

_Her wit sublime._

_And by the hour of day’s end,_

_The lonely deer had found a friend._

_Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of flowers freed upon a gale._

_Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of little feet that blazed a trail._

_Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of friendship born, made to prevail._

_Of hope, and light, and little things,_

_And all the good that caring brings!_

_Now, scooch on in,_

_Please pass the gin,_

_And listen to this next part._

_Our lovely lass was not the last,_

_To save our sorry deer’s sad ass.”_

A snort of laughter from Liatris—positioned closest to the stage, sat in her brother’s lap—set off a funny little domino effect of giggles from the crowd. Jaskier grinned puckishly as his feet hopped into a quick, fluttering chassé. Apparently, at some point during the song he’d started skipping and dancing along without realizing it. 

_“It takes a village, as they say,_

_The same in which we dwell today._

_Together Luibh joined to pray,_

_prayed their deer not go away._

_And thus the fair deer’s mind did sway,_

_‘Twas this enchanted him to stay._

_No single savior,_

_Scorned his behavior,_

_Nor found him weird,_

_Or ran afeared._

_Instead they opened up their arms,_

_Aft that, the deer was quickly charmed._

_Grateful, said deer wove a gift,_

_Which bade the village stalks to lift._

_And lift, and lift, and lift, and lift,_

_Till all their lives began to shift._

_The change of which to you I speak,_

_Is clear in Lui-bh-tor-rach’s peak._

_You sing, you dance, you laugh and smile,_

_And why not?_

_Friends, I see you live in style!_

_Though thank naught,_

_Your oddly, godly friend,_

_‘Twas you that caused your coin ascend!_

_Yes, you that stopped his aimless roam,_

_With kindness, gave your deer a home.”_

Jumping into the last chorus, Jaskier started stomping a foot to the beat. The audience enthusiastically responded by clapping along; adults swaying, elbows locked with their partner’s, children hopping up and down, faces full of glee.

_“Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of little towns with tons of ale._

_Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of fertile crop that didn’t fail._

_Delight, delight, delight the tale,_

_Of which your children shall regale!_

_Of love, of mirth, and mystery,_

_That will go down in history!”_

The audience whooped and whistled, clapped and cheered! Jaskier felt if he smiled any harder the grin would likely split his face in two. He bowed with as much theatricality as he could muster and hopped off the stage, the last band quickly taking his place so as not to leave the party without an ambient, jiggery tune. 

Jaskier shifted his lute to rest on his back and plopped down next to Geralt, flinging a leg over one of the Witcher’s. 

“I think that went rather well!” the bard said, huffing a big sigh of relief. 

Geralt hummed in agreement. “Suppose I’ll have to apologize for that old _‘pie with no filling’_ comment… you sang beautifully.”

Jaskier gasped dramatically, “ _Oh!_ So your ears _do_ function after all! You had me worried there, Geralt. A Witcher’s hearing is vital to the whole _‘monster hunting’_ craft.” 

Jaskier giggled and dodged Geralt’s attempt to ruffle his hair over the sarcastic comment. Once certain his hair was safe, he dove in to kiss the other man’s cheek and swiped the mug of ale from the Witcher’s other hand. 

“Mmm, _mine now_ ,” Jaskier crooned, taking a healthy swig of ale. His Witcher merely stared back at him with a lovesick expression, chin resting in his hand and elbow propped up on the table. As he was now, Geralt somewhat reminded him of a puppy, his usually slitted pupils blown big with adoration. 

“ _Oh dear_ … like what you see, hm?” Jaskier warmly chuckled, lowering the stolen mug.

“Hmm, always,” Geralt whispered, leaning in to nuzzle at his bard’s neck. The coy sniff—deep and appreciative—right above Jaskier’s collarbone did not go unnoticed. “You smell wonderful, too.” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier chided, softly, “We’re at a _festival._ ” 

“You smell wonderful at this festival.” 

“ _Pfft,_ you are ridiculous!” Jaskier threw an arm around his Witcher’s shoulders with a hearty laugh. 

He wasn’t sure it was possible to love someone more than he loved his White Wolf at that very moment. 

A couple people came over to congratulate him on a job well done, ask him questions about the lyrics, so on and so forth. Eraim stopped by with an offering of mulled wine— that Jaskier happily gulped down— and asked them how they’d met. He did most of the talking, but Geralt chimed in now and again. 

The festivities had dwindled down mostly to muted chatter and drink, as it was getting rather late. Liatris—looking tired herself— suggested she go give her speech before anyone left for bed. 

_‘Smart little flower,’_ Jaskier thought, with something akin to pride.

Lia gave her speech from the stage, immediately perking up with all eyes on her. She assumed a very serious, adult-like posture; her head held high, hands clasped behind her back. 

For a second, Jaskier was worried. The villagers seemed visibly saddened by the news, some of them frowning and looking around at one another with lost expressions. However— _thank Melitele_ —his worries were soothed as soon as Lia reassured them that their god promised to return each Midaëte. The crowd’s mood changed instantly; frowns turning back to wide smiles, some people sighing in relief. Geralt rubbed a soothing hand over his back, and Jaskier—unaware he’d tensed up so severely—immediately felt his body relax again. 

All was well.

At the end of her speech, Liatris bowed—mirroring what she’d seen Jaskier do earlier— hopped off the stage, and ran over to their table, like a firecracker sprung loose from its casing. 

“All that practice paid off, Mr. Jaskier!” She beamed.

“But of course! You did brilliantly,” the bard praised loudly, then switched to a low whisper; the tone of a conspirator, “If I hug you right now it’d be suspicious, too obvious we know each other well when I’m supposed to be a stranger. To maintain appearances, let’s simply shake hands.” 

Liatris giggled. After all, there was much fun to be had in secrecy. She shook Jaskier’s hand and put on a completely unsuspicious voice, “Oh yes, thank you Mr.Bard-Jaskier. You are _very_ nice for someone I’ve never met before.” 

“Yes, yes, certainly. But, now you should be off to bed, little lady,” he leaned in to whisper again, adding, “Better get plenty of rest if you want to go flying tomorrow, hm?” 

Lia strained to contain a little happy squeal of excitement and nodded. 

“I love you, Mr. Jaskier,” she sing-song whispered, “You too, Mr. Geralt. _Goodnight!_ ” 

Lia waved and ran off, most likely to ask her parents if she could go to sleep early for the first time in her life. 

A few drinks later, Jaskier and Geralt both agreed it was time to head back. 

They waved and said their goodbyes, but before the pair could slip away, Mr. Buidhe waved them over from his seat by one of the fire pits. Curious as to what he had to say, the Bard and his Witcher walked over. Jaskier expected the old man to ask Geralt about their mutual ‘friend in the forest’, but Buidhe regarded the Bard instead. 

“New outfit?” 

“Oh! _Uh_ —Yes, actually,” Jaskier replied. It was probably a fair assumption, given the timing; Midaëte was indeed an occasion worthy of a new outfit. “I got it from Jule— _ah_ , Justyna’s shoppe. Remarkable tailor. Such intricate work yet still quite comfy!” 

“Well, it’s certainly less breathable than your last one… but very fitting for festus,” the old man smirked, knowingly. “Wonderful performance tonight, young man.” 

Jaskier blinked in surprise. 

_‘He recognizes me,’_ he realized, and, well… it actually sort of made sense, in a way. Buidhe had always seemed unusually perceptive. 

The bard chuckled fondly as he patted the old man on the shoulder, all pretense of unfamiliarity abandoned. 

“Ah, I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing gets past you, Mr. Buidhe, does it?”

“Hmm, not a thing, my friend,” the old man hummed with a proud little smile. “ _Not a thing._ ” 

They spoke for a bit: about the festival, about their travel plans, the enchantment Jaskier had used to spell the flowers into strange instruments of communication. 

Geralt thanked Mr. Buidhe for keeping Jaskier’s secret, to which Buidhe replied, 

“Nothing to thank me for. Just what good friends do.” 

Eventually, the pair wished Mr. Buidhe a goodnight and continued their walk back. 

It was right before they’d cleared the town completely that something sitting to the side of the path caught Jaskier’s eye. 

“Geralt, look,” he said, walking over to examine the thing. “It’s uh… well, I suppose it’s one of my shrines.” 

Geralt came over and hummed, “ _Hmm_ . Uncanny. Gotta admit, it’s sort of weird as _fuck._ ” 

Jaskier snickered and playfully jabbed the other man in the ribs with an elbow. 

“Oh, be nice. It’s _flattering,_ alright? Weird, but… flattering,” the bard reasoned, more to convince himself than the other man. 

The thing was a rugged, wooden sculpture, just under head height. It looked like a lot of road-side shrines to Melitele; encircled by many dripping candles, various offerings of food and drink at its feet. It bore all the familiar trademarks of a roadside pit stop for worship… Except, this one depicted a seated figure with beastly, curved horns. Its large, wooden wings were spread to either side, feathered tips curving up to meet above its head, forming a sort of arrow, no doubt meant to point to the heavens. The figure’s hooved legs were crossed, the arms relaxed, hands folded in its lap with their palms up, producing a buttercup in full bloom. Its face was covered with a cloth, very clearly a miniature version of his own. Not a carved one but a real one, bearing the insignia Jaskier had unwittingly designated as the mark of Samhradh-Arinn. _His_ mark. He had no way of knowing what the symbol would come to mean to Luibh when he’d made it. The Fae had many useful powers, but, alas, _prediction_ was not one of them. 

“They got my horns right, at least,” Jaskier chuckled, attempting to make light of the odd sight before them. Geralt merely hummed in agreement. 

And that should’ve been that. 

But…

Before the bard could turn to leave, joke about the statue some more, laugh about it on their way back to his homey, little shack… something came over him. 

A curiosity. 

An… _impulse._

Jaskier reached a wary hand out, fingers hovering over the figure’s head. He felt Geralt tense next to him, and _tsked,_ reminding the paranoid wolf that it was just a simple wooden carving, after all, nothing more.

Then he touched it.

Immediately, he felt a tremendous rush of power _surge_ through him. It was a searing wave. Burning, scalding, hot as the center of a flame, yet somehow not even slightly painful— _no_ —not in the least.

In fact… _it felt good._

Jaskier felt molten inside, could feel the heat churn and twist within him, could feel it settle—merging itself with every fiber of his being.

Words flashed behind his eyes:

_‘The vast, morning sky—a crystal blue void—opens its impetuous maw to swallow whole the very sun itself.’_

“ _Jaskier!!_ ” 

It was Geralt’s worried voice that startled him out of the alarmingly strong trance he’d been under. 

Jaskier pulled his hand away from the statue with a shaky gasp.

“What the _fuck_ was that, you—” The Witcher stopped mid sentence to stare, wide-eyed, at Jaskier’s face. “Your _eyes_ , Jask…” 

For a moment the Fae was confused by Geralt’s gawking. What could possibly be wrong with his eyes? Then he noticed the unusual, pale blue light cast across the Witcher’s face…

Jaskier blinked. Then looked down, and—just as he thought— the light shifted with his gaze. 

“They’re uh…. glowing,” Geralt provided, sounding strangely cautious. 

“Yes, thank you, I can see that.” Jaskier waved a hand in front of his face, observing the eerie light on his own skin. He noticed then that Geralt had a hand over the front of his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt. He was about to point that out when Geralt spoke up again. 

“No, I mean...your eyes are glowing...” the Witcher repeated with furrowed brows. “... a lot?” He paused, made a couple small frustrated noises which meant he was probably struggling to find the right words. “ _Completely_ glowing. Your eyes are—they’re a _solid_ _blue_ , Jask. No whites, no pupils. Just… _blue._ ” 

_‘Huh. Well, that was certainly… new.’_

“Alright… weird. Not the weirdest thing that’s happened lately, though still. Definitely weird,” the Fae nervously huffed. “But, Geralt, what’s up with your chest, are you okay?” 

The Witcher sighed and released his hand. As soon as he did, Jaskier noticed something vibrating wildly under his shirt. He closed the distance between them to get a better look as Geralt fished the erratically shaking medallion out from under his shirt. 

“It’s never reacted like this before,” the Witcher mused, perplexed. 

“ _Ah_ …. know what it means?” 

“Hm. No,” Geralt gripped the medallion tighter. “But… we’ll figure it out. Ask Yennefer about it when we can.” 

Jaskier had a strong feeling that whatever he’d absorbed from the shrine would be beyond Yennefer… but he simply nodded in agreement. 

“Here, I’ll try to, uh…” The Fae focused on his energy, searching for the root of the problem. Feeling where the glow radiated from, Jaskier willed it to calm down, to hide. He blinked until the blue light in front of him faded away completely. Once it had, Geralt’s medallion calmed as well; still against his chest once more. 

“It would seem… I still have a lot to learn about myself,” the bard sighed. 

“We’ll have plenty of time to do so,” his Wolf assured, taking one of Jaskier’s hands in his own. “For now, just… don’t touch those.” 

“Got it. No touching the _‘mini-me’s,_ ” Jaskier laughed as he laced their fingers together, and, slowly, started to walk again. 

Geralt was right. Whatever this was, they had plenty of time to figure it out. Tonight, all he wanted was to curl up in bed with his beloved Wolf and get some much needed rest.

——

Now, see… Jaskier had been hoping for a peaceful night’s sleep—a dreamless sleep— and he’d really thought he might get what he wanted considering how tuckered out he’d been after Midaëte. However, dreams never really seemed to care if you wanted them or not. They came of their own accord and did as they wished. It was simply the nature of dreams—that was understandable.

The trouble was, Jaskier wasn’t completely convinced this was a dream.

He’d remembered falling asleep, remembered settling into the furs of his nest-like bed with his Wolf curled comfortably against him. Remembered drifting off—the interior of his cozy shack fading away as he fell into sleep. 

So, it would make sense that he’d be dreaming right now but… why would he dream of standing outside his shack, in his little clearing? 

There was a light, summer’s night breeze that tickled his naked shoulders. He’d gone to sleep in the nude, but in his dreams the Fae was almost always clothed. So why not in this one? 

There was an iridescent haze around him… the air seemed clotted with a shimmering mist, slightly warping and bending the scenery around him; distorting it without really affecting it. It reminded him of the cloaking spell Muralis had used when they’d taken him… It couldn’t be real. Why did everything feel so _real?_

Jaskier felt a sort of tug, a pulsing, beckoning invitation calling him forward. He let it draw him in, lead him toward the trees at the edge of the clearing. Stepping closer to the treeline, he heard a faint rhythmic warbling, not from anywhere specific, though— _no,_ not from any identifiable direction—it was as if it were inside his ears, inside his _head_ … Finally he saw what he was walking towards, or, rather, _who._

A small yellow bird sat on a branch. Patiently watching his approach. 

He stopped in front of her, waited for Leeta to address him. Jaskier didn’t really feel like talking with her, not yet. But if she was here, it was for something important… so he’d cooperate, or, at least, _try_ to. 

The little warbler flapped its wings and all at once unraveled. There Leeta stood—her glamour dropped—with one of her many characteristically unreadable expressions plastered to her face. Except… Jaskier thought he saw a _crack_ in it this time, exposing something that seemed like… relief. 

“...Dandelion.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alright... _Jaskier_ , then…”

“I’m not still dreaming, am I?”

“Does this _feel_ like a dream?”

He huffed, rubbing a hand down his face wearily.

“Not... really.”

“Then it isn’t, and you aren’t. Not really. In many ways, you’re the most _‘awake’_ you’ve ever been.”

Always with the cryptic metaphors. Sometimes Jaskier wondered what Leeta had against speaking clearly. The way she’d said _‘awake’_ though… it reminded him of something, of the other uncomfortably real visions that visited him in his sleep.

“.... The dreams... the _void_... those are your voices, aren’t they? Swimming in my head, trying to tell me something.”

Leeta hummed and looked away, perhaps considering how to answer his question. 

“...Not us.... but we hear them, too. Sing with them, sometimes.”

A calculated response. Leeta was purposefully withholding information, of course she was… but… even though Jaskier knew that getting a straight answer out of the other Fae was unlikely at best… He still couldn’t stop himself from asking the big question—the one that’d been haunting him since the void dreams began. In a way, part of him already knew the answer. He just needed to voice it. 

“....I was never really human, was I?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. 

One of Leeta’s wings twitched.

“......How’d you figure that?” 

“The dreams.... the place where I can see and feel in the void. The child there, she’s not human, she’s _Fae._ ”

Leeta turned to look at him, but remained silent. So, Jaskier continued.

“The place where they cut her tail. My mother has a birthmark in the same spot. Or, at least that’s what she told me it was. She used to take me to the bathing houses when I was young, the section for the women and their little ones. I saw it once, right where her tailbone sits. It looked so much like a scar… Now I know that’s what it was. Perhaps she never knew herself, though. Maybe she grew up believing it really _was_ just an odd birthmark…” he finished, words trailing off into heavy silence. Jaskier wasn’t expecting any sort of confirmation, but after nearly a minute of quiet...

“It was a secret.”

He drew in a shaky breath. Leeta’s sudden candor was… surprising. 

“What else do you know?”

“It is not my place to say.... Muralis—“

“Will not meet me here, I know.”

Her expression shifted a bit then. Softened. 

“Will you come back then? To speak with them?”

“...In time,” Jaskier admitted. He always knew he’d have to go back at some point. He had so many questions, and, even though he was still rightfully bitter… he _missed_ them. The mix of these emotions frustrated him to no end. “...Though my return will in no way mean my forgiveness.” 

...Leeta just stared. Understanding.

“If you can though, tell me this.”

....more silence, though her shoulders visibly tensed. 

“You finding me alone all those years ago... I thought it was coincidence, all this time, but now... what was it really?” 

“....There is little room for coincidence in a world moved by fate,” Leeta relented with a sigh.

“Ah, yes, _destiny_... we’re... well acquainted.”

....More silence. More staring.

“I need to know _more._ Why my family kept this secret, why my power was dormant, why it never showed until you took me. I know Síhde-Sifra changes humans, but since I was never _that_ —never _human_ — how much of my transformation was the plane’s doing and how much of it was _me_ —my heritage? And, why do I look so different— I mean— my mother had just a tail, but I—“

“Muralis will explain it all,” she assured, cutting him off. 

“ _Oh,_ like they explained it all last time??” Jaskier bit out, sardonically.

“You weren’t yet ready—“

_“HaH!_ Yeah right— ** _Fuck_** _that.”_

Leeta shook her head and growled, a frustrated yet, ironically, melodic sound. She was clearly trying to calm herself before continuing the conversation. Finally, the other Fae sighed, replying in a tired voice. 

“...So, would you have believed us back then?”

“I— _shit_ — well… okay, probably not but…” Jaskier flicked his tail in annoyance. Then, much to his chagrin, his tone slid into something more desperate, “I’m ready now.... can you at least give me something, _anything_ , before you go?”

As he spoke, the world around them started... shaking. He heard muffled yelling in the distance. Jaskier turned to see Geralt standing by the shack, his figure distorted by the fog.

Leeta’s voice, rushed and worried, pulled his attention away from the Witcher. Jaskier snapped his head back to look at her and blinked in shock at her blatantly _sad_ expression; protective mask of indifference utterly gone, thrown aside. 

“You already know more than you think you do.”

“Leeta. Speak. _Clearly._ ” He hissed with urgency, knowing her visit was quickly coming to an end as the spell around them crumbled.

“Why do you think you’re so powerful, Jaskier?” she responded, raising her voice as the warbling slowly climbed to a roar in their ears.

“... _What?_ ...I don’t follow,” he yelled back. 

“Who does your power remind you of? You can change the world around you, even without the awareness that you’re doing so. Think about it! Why were you able to pull all that energy from the shrine, the shrine your people _prayed_ to? And the visions! The voices that call out to you are **_Old_ ** , Jaskier. They call to you because you’re of their **_Blood_ ** , we only hear them through _you._ ” 

The mist spun between them, like a whirlwind, obscuring the other Fae’s form. 

“ _LEETA, PLEASE—_ “

“We’ll see you soon, Jaskier. Melina misses you—“ she called out, voice a whisper in the wind. 

Then the world _dropped_ … or, at least that’s what it felt like… He seemed to fall, phase right through the ground and then drop back down in the same place he’d just been, only without all the mist and wind and roaring. Suddenly, Geralt was beside him, pulling on his arm, worried. 

“Jaskier, what the _fuck_ just happened? One moment we’re asleep, the next I hear you out here yelling at nothing. _What_ —“ 

“It’s alright, dear,” the Fae sighed. “I’ll tell you what happened in the morning, I promise. For now let’s go back to bed… _please._ ”

Geralt seemed unconvinced, but, still, he agreed, taking pity on his bard. Maybe Jaskier looked as exhausted as he felt. 

They returned to the shack and immediately fell back into bed. Tonight’s mysteries could wait for tomorrow. Besides, as Geralt told him earlier that night, they had plenty of time to figure it all out. And after Leeta’s visit, Jaskier was more certain than ever that they _would_ figure it out. 

Together, they’d find all the answers. 

No matter how long it took. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa, my goodness, this chapter was a trial to get out, but I'm so happy to share it!❤️  
> I made a handy lil ref of Jask nakey, just to give y’all a more ~intimate~ way to envision certain scenes for chp.19, and I illustrated the statue scene, because I really wanted to draw it lol  
> You can find the original posts on my tumblr [Here](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/post/630728509269196800/chapter-18-of-he-fell-into-a-faerie-ring-is) (Statue)  
> here and on my twitter [Here](https://twitter.com/LoxVol/status/1311448097025740800) (Nude Ref)  
> ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the wonderful [Geraskier_Midsummer_Mini_Bang](https://geraskiermidsummerminibang.tumblr.com/) that I joined.  
> A special thanks to [Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness/pseuds/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness) , [riots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots) , and [maxtbh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxtbh/pseuds/maxtbh) on Ao3 for being my lovely betas!  
> You can find me on Tumblr [@geraltnoises](https://geraltnoises.tumblr.com/) and on Twitter [@LoxVol](https://twitter.com/LoxVol)  
> Both blogs are 18+  
> Artworks for this fic will be posted/rebloged onto these blogs and/or embedded onto the fic itself.  
> I will be updating with a new chapter every 3 days or so until the posting period ends.  
> Thank you for reading!


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